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AN 

IMAGINARY STORY 

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BY 

ARTHUR BROOKE CADEN 

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1903 

CHICAGO 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

JUN 15 1903 

Copyright tntry 

13-^ 0 Z 

CLAS^ XXc. No. 

S’ ^ ^ ^ 

COPY B. 


Copyright 1903 

BY 

Arthur Brooke Cadsm 



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AN IMAGINARY STORY 


I. 

It began this way it was Saturday afternoon : I 

had finished my work on the bars, and on the chest 
and leg machines in the gymnasium, and was 
wrestling as usual with the little Irishman, before 
winding up my exercise with a mile run. Though 
I did not know his name, nor he mine, we were very 
good friends in an athletic way, and met nearly 
every afternoon, about five, in the gymnasium. 
We were fairly well matched, for though he was 
thirty pounds heavier than I was and a head shorter, 
I was fully as strong about the chest and arms, 
and was also much more active. I would nearly 
always get the hold and throw him, but in falling 
he would squirm his body around so as to land on his 
stomach with me on top. Then the struggle would 
begin. If it lasted long enough his extra weight 
would generally tell, and it would end by his laying 
me on my back. He was a good natured fellow, 
though, and as I have a habit of suiting myself 
to my company, in the six months that we had 
known each other we had never had a row. 

This afternoon, being the last in the week, with 
a Sunday rest before us, we were both doing our 
best. I had already won one fall, and now had 

3 


4 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


him on his stomach and was waiting for an oppor- 
tunity to turn him over. My attention must have 
wandered for a moment, for suddenly, by a heave 
of his shoulders, he threw me off, sprang to his 
knees, and grabbed me by my right hand fingers. 
Before I could recover myself he had twisted me 
around and laid me on my back with his knee on 
my chest. We both laughed and got up, and, after 
a few moments rest, took position for the last bout. 
I began slowly pacing around him, with my arms 
slightly advanced and my- body bent, ready to 
spring in as soon as I should see an opening. I was 
just tightening my muscles for a jump when he 
sprang back crying,. ‘‘Stop, stop, look at your 
finger.” 

I stopped in my spring and looked down quickly. 
The fore-finger of my right hand was wabbling 
around helplessly with each movement of my body. 

“Hell,” I said, “I believe it’s broken,” and it 
was; in throwing me he had snapped the bone 
between the knuckle and the middle joint. I 
looked at it and laughed ruefully. 

But there was nothing to be done except to have 
it set as quickly as possible, so, with my Irishman, 
who had been pouring out a stream of profane 
ejaculations expressive of the sincerest sorrow, I 
ran to the dressing-room, and, skinning off my 
gymnasium suit, got under the shower-bath. When 
I came out in a couple of minutes he already had 
my locker open, and was waiting for me with a 
towel. I did not take much of a rub-down but 


IMAGINARY STORY 


5 


dried off as quickly as I could, and hurried into 
my clothes. He helped me whenever it was neces- 
sary, and in about fifteen minutes I found myself 
on the street. 

While dressing I had made up my mind what 
to do. I had a friend who was house-surgeon 
at one of the up-town hospitals on Lexington 
avenue, and I would visit him. I saw a cable car 
coming and ran and caught it. I nearly hurt 
my finger again in grabbing the rail, as the gripman 
did not stop, though I signaled him. 

On my way up-town I straightened the break 
as well as I could, and made a sling of my hand- 
kerchief — it was beginning to hurt like the devil. 
Then I lit a cigar and meditated. A more unfortu- 
nate minor accident could not have happened to 
me, for I was a reporter by trade, and on my writing 
depended my living. Five years before I had 
come to New York with a bundle of manuscript 
in my trunk, and a trunkful of ambition in my 
soul — I was to be a great author. Now I was 
twenty-six, and further off from greatness than 
ever. I had but little money when I started, for 
I had quarreled with my father, who wished me 
to devote myself to business, and my manuscripts 
would not sell. I soon had to look for work, and 
chose reporting, as I imagined that it had a close 
connection with literature. By the time I had 
discovered my mistake I had fallen into the routine, 
and was too lazy or too weak to break out of it. 

My first job was with a city news-bureau, where 


6 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


I received two dollars a day — which were not always 
forthcoming — and out of which I had to pay my 
carfare. Then I was promoted to four dollars 
a day, when I had to work from ten in the morning 
until one or two at night. 

Toward the end of my stay with the news-bureau 
I was given the cream of the assignments — prin- 
cipally, I believe, because I always wore clean 
collars and cuffs, and was the only member of the 
staff who owned a dress suit in good repair. It 
was this which got me my first regular position 
on a newspaper. I was at the annual dinner of 
the Southern Society. I had written my report 
and sent my copy down to the office, and was 
enjoying myself getting full on free champagne. 
I knew many of the members of the society socially, 
for I was a southerner myself, and over the wine 
a strong brotherly feeling developed. In the little 
group in which I was sitting — for the regular dinner 
and speech-making was over — this was especially 
so. I knew all the men well except one, and he 
was the managing editor of one of the yellow 
journals. I saw that my chance had come, and 
seized it — before the crowd broke up I had cultivated 
his acquaintance so well that he had promised me 
a position on the city staff of his paper. He was 
as good as his word — though not quite sober when 
he gave it — and the next day I found myself regu- 
larly employed. 

And now began my palmy days so far as money 
went. I was put on space from the beginning. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


7 


The city editor treated me well. Rarely did my 
bills fall below fifty dollars a week, while sometimes 
they reached a hundred. I laid in a store of shirts 
and shoes, collars and cuffs, clothes and under- 
clothes, which stood me in good stead when the 
dark days came. 

For the dark days came. There was one of 
those periodical upheavals which occur in most 
newspaper offices, and my friend the managing 
editor retired. Then there came a new city editor, 
and my bills began to shrink. One day my bill 
was so small that I expostulated, and was told 
that if I did not like it, why, etc., etc. I did not 
like it, so cleaned up my desk and left. I was really 
glad to leave, though if I had continued to make 
money I would probably have worked on indefi- 
nitely, despite the fact that, to a gentleman, it 
Vv'as a disgusting sheet to work for. It was lie, 
lie, lie, all the time; not such lies, of course, as would 
give grounds for a libel suit, but lies which could not 
be absolutely disproved. Everything had to be 
twisted into a sensation. I really grew ashamed 
to read my own writing, though, of course, I never 
failed to charge for it all in my bill. 

It was six months before I got another job. It 
is true that, at first, I did not try very hard, as I 
had a little money saved up, and thought I would 
try my hand at fiction again, seeing that I had had 
so much practice, but still the old women editors 
of the magazines did not seem able to appreciate 
the value of my work. When my money got very 


8 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


low I went back to the newspapers, and worked 
a while as a free lance. I managed to scratch 
along in this way, and occasionally, when I was 
able to get in two or three long stories in the Sunday 
papers, would find myself in funds ags* But 
I spent as fast as I made, and twice haa co pawn 
my watch. This always braced me up. I would 
stop drinking, lead a regular life, and save up 
pennies until I had taken it out again. I suppose 
I made enough good resolutions during this time 
to last an ordinary man for life. One good thing 
was that I took up my gymnasium work again — 
I had dropped it almost entirely while reporting, 
except a little dumb-bell exercise in the mornings 
before taking my bath — and began taking long 
Sunday walks in the country. 

After six months another swing of the pendulum 
raised a friend of mine to the position of city editor 
on one of the most respectable of the afternoon 
papers, and he offered me a position on salary. 
The pay was small, but the hours were short, and 
I accepted the offer in order to have a certainty while 
devoting my spare time to special stories, and 
serious work on my novel. I was now twenty-five, 
and felt that the time to begin in earnest had come. 

It sounds disgraceful to say so, but for the next 
whole year I did absolutely nothing. Each after- 
noon, between three and four, unless it rained, 
I would walk up-town to Twenty-third street and 
exercise in the gymnasium until five, then go up 
stairs and spend half an hour or so in the reading- 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


9 


room looking over the current perdiocals. Then 
to supper wherever the fancy should strike me, 
generally to some fifty-cent table d’hote, with wine 
included, after .which, unless I was enticed away 
to th ."^eatre or elsewhere by some friend, I would 
return^ ifo my room, get out the MS. of my novel 
and pretend to work. The first preliminary would 
be to light my pipe and plan out what I would do 
when my novel was accepted and published and 
I was famous. This would be so interesting that 
it would generally take two or three pipes to work 
it out thoroughly, by which time it would be too 
late to begin work that night. Then I would 
generally take a last pipe on which to make good 
resolutions for the morrow. 

Of course I was conscious all the time what 
a wretched creature I really was — how I was wasting 
my life — and many a time in fits of deep depression, 
after dreams more than usually brilliant the night 
before, was ready to commit suicide. It is the 
easiest way out of difficulties, if you have sufficient 
courage, and frequently is the only sensible course, 
though as long as a man has health, and is not 
hopelessly compromised, I think that it is unwise, 
for while you are alive you still have a chance, 
whereas when you are dead you are dead forever. 

Such had been my life, and such was my mental 
condition on the day of the accident. When 
the car reached 66th street I signalled the conductor 
to stop, which he did. I found my friend, the house- 
surgeon, in his room. He was a southerner, and 


10 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


a very nice fellow, and we had Often played poker 
together. He took my accident as a matter of 
course, for breaks and cuts were an everyday 
matter to him, and even laughed a little when I 
told him how it occurred. He had not yet been in 
private practice, so had still to learn how to play 
the hypocrite. He congratulated me on the fact 
that the joint was not injured, swathed the finger 
in cotton, wrapped it up with cheese-cloth and 
plaster, and told me not to use it for a month. It 
was all so nice and cheerful that it did not seem to 
me that I was hurt at all, and it was not until I 
returned to my room that the seriousness of my 
position again impressed me. I could write a 
little, of course, though not without pain, by holding 
my pencil between my thumb and middle finger, 
but not fast enough to be of much use to me in 
reporting, for, on an afternoon paper, work must 
be done in a rush. Also, unfortunately, I had never 
learned to write on a typewriter, so my left hand 
was useless to me. 

I thought over the future pretty seriously that 
evening, but could arrive at no conclusion. By 
good luck I had a little money, having drawn my 
salary that morning, and also twenty-five dollars 
from another paper for an article describing an 
unusual surgical operation. With this, besides 
some change left over from the previous week, I 
could scratch along through the month, and, if the 
worst came to the worst, I could again pawn my 
watch. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


11 


I went to bed that night in a very gloomy frame 
of mind, and for several hours could not sleep. 
Towards morning I began to doze off occasionally, 
to be awakened each time with a sudden start to 
find that I was pressing on my finger. The last 
time the awakening was not so sudden — it was 
then after daylight — as my pain had worked itself 
into a dream. I was a boy again, and in my old 
home in Galveston, and had cut my finger. I 
remember the incident quite well. I had bought 
a new knife, and was whittling a piece of wood, 
when it slipped and cut me. I dropped my knife 
and ran crying to my mother. She kissed me, as 
usual, then bound the finger up. This actually 
occurred, but in my dream the ending became 
distorted, for, after she had bound the finger up, 
her face gradually changed, until it became old 
and wrinkled like a witch’s, then she put my finger 
in her mouth and began chewing on it with dier 
toothless gums. I begged and prayed her to stop, 
until at last the pain became so intense that I 
screamed aloud. This awoke me in reality. I found 
that this time my hand was hanging over the 
side of the bed, and that the rush of blood was causing 
me actual agony. I did not go to sleep again, but 
the dream had given a direction to my thoughts, 
and I began to review the various accidents of my 
childhood. This again brought Galveston vividly 
before my mind, until at last a longing sprung up 
within me to visit my old home there once more. 
It was no longer mine, for, a year after my arrival 


12 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


in New York, my father died — my mother had 
died three months before I left Galveston — leaving 
almost nothing except the house. I gave up my 
share in this to my -sister, as she needed money 
more than I did, and she had since married and 
left Galveston. 

At seven o^clock I got up and put the water on 
my oil stove to boil. Then I stepped into the 
closet where I kept my bath tub and took a cold 
plunge — holding my right hand, however, well 
above my head. This refreshed me considerably, 
though the drying off afterwards was somewhat 
awkward. Then I opened the hall door to get 
my bottle of milk which the janitor placed there 
every morning. By this time my water was boiling. 
I poured half of it on my coffee, and used the 
remainder to boil my eggs— my usual breakfast 
except when I had oatmeal for a change, for how- 
ever badly I might end a day I always began it well. 

All the while I had been thinking of Galveston, 
until by the time I had finished breakfast, 
dressed, and glanced through the morning papers, 
my mind was made up: I would visit there if it 
took my last cent. 

It was now nine o’clock. The first thing to do 
was to visit my city editor. We had gradually 
drifted apart since his promotion, and now I did 
not know where he lived. There was a drug store 
on the corner, so I went there and looked him up 
in the directory. He was living on the next block. 
I started for his house immediately, calculating 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


13 


that I would find him just finishing breakfast. 
I was wrong in this, however, for, the day being 
Sunday, he was, though awake, still luxuriating 
in bed. I was somewhat doubtful about my 
reception, for a city editor is a beast which belongs 
to a genus of its own. No matter what a man may 
have been before, once he becomes a city editor he 
changes — generally for the worse. I was received 
cordially, however, my visit being unofficial, and 
invited to join him in the breakfast for which he 
then rang. This I declined, and then explained to 
him the object of my call. He was really quite 
sympathetic, and promised to keep my position 
open for me until I returned. 

The rest of the day I spent in packing and in 
making arrangements for my departure. In the 
afternoon I called at the shipping-news office and 
found that there would be a steamer for Galveston, 
via the Mallory Line, at 4 o^clock the next afternoon. 
It was an extra steamer sent out on account of the 
rush of freight. 

Now my money was barely enough to pay my 
passage one way, unless I went steerage, which I 
had no intention of doing, so it became absolutely 
necessary for me to get a pass. I have found that 
business men at their offices are much more difficult 
to manage than business men at home, unless the 
matter be a business one, so my best chance was 
to see the manager of the line at his house. I 
looked up his address, and found that he lived on 
Staten Island. In the old days my father had 


14 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


been a heavy shipper over the line, and I knew 
that he would remember my name. I took a light 
dinner, then started for Staten Island. It was still 
daylight when I reached his house, for, as I have 
forgotten to say, it was nearly the month of June. 
I found him in his garden examining some rose 
bushes, so did not have to send in my card. He 
remembered me after a moment, and we chatted 
a while before I broached the object of my visit. 

It was difficult ; very, very difficult ; but before I left 
I had an order on the office for a round trip ticket. 
The next morning, to have money enough, I pawned 
my watch for fifty dollars and bought an imitation 
gold one for $2.69, and, in the afternoon, at half 
past three, was on board the Leona ready to start 
for Galveston. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


15 


II. 

This trip was uneventful, but to me was one of 
unalloyed delight. Years had passed since I had 
last had a regular holiday. I was not seasick at 
all. Every morning at daylight I would be on 
deck watching the sailors cleaning up for the day. 
Each sunrise would be a fresh source of pleasure, 
and at first I made short notes to remember the 
sequence of the various colors, but finally gave up 
in despair, as no words can describe the living gold 
of the sun as it first raises its edge above the horizon. 
My finger gave me but little pain, and seemed to 
be knitting well. At Key West we anchored off 
shore, as quarantine had been declared against 
it by Galveston, and nobody was allowed to visit 
the town. I was sorry for this as I wished to buy 
some cigars. 

When we entered the gulf the nights, became 
even more beautiful than before. The water was 
one gleaming mass of phosphorus, and, after dark, 
I would stand at the bow of the vessel and watch 
the porpoises playing around its nose. They 
were wonderfully active, and could cover two yards 
to our one. Of the passengers there were not many, 
but enough, with the steward, to make up a little 
game of poker, which netted me about twenty 
dollars by the time we reached Galveston. The 
voyage took nearly seven days. It was daylight 
Monday morning before we reached the jetties. 


16 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


I had thought that the power to feel excitement 
was dead in me, but, as we neared the town, and 
the well remembered landmarks, began to assume 
definite shape, I felt something stir within me almost 
approaching the old time thrill. We passed the 
quarantine station, the hospital, the old wharf, 
where oftentimes I had gone crabbing, the newer 
wharfs lined with shipping, and at last arrived oppo- 
site to our own pier. Here the captain decided to 
bring the steamer around, and, as the tide was 
against us, it was a tedious job. I watched, for 
a while, the negro longshoremen swarm down to 
the dock to be ready to unload as soon as we should 
be tied up, then went to my stateroom to gather 
together my scattered belongings preparatory 
to going ashore. I donned my summer suit and 
the straw hat which I had bought before leaving 
New York, for the day promised to be warm. When 
I came out of my stateroom they were just lowering 
the gangway for the passengers to land; while 
below the iron doors in the side of the steamer had 
already been thrown open and a gang of darkies 
were rushing in. There were but few people on 
the dock to welcome us, and none to welcome me. 
Somehow I felt disappointed. I walked down 
the gang-plank, with my room steward bearing 
my valise, for I had tipped him liberally out of 
my poker winnings. Here I met my first acquaint- 
ance — the transfer-man — who greeted me by name. 
I shook hands with him effusively, and gave him 
my valise and trunk check, with instructions to 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


17 


take valise and trunk to the Tremont Hotel. As 
I had not yet breakfasted, I strolled down Tremont 
street to Henry’s and drank a cocktail. It was the 
first drink I had taken since leaving New York, 
except an occasional bottle of beer, as I had decided, 
on account of my finger, to make this a temperance 
trip. The cocktail braced me up, for I was feeling 
rather gloomy, and I ate a piece of tenderloin 
trout for breakfast with relish. Then I took a 
Market street car to the neighborhood of my old 
home. 

From a distance it seemed to be unchanged, but, 
as I drew nearer, I saw that time and neglect had 
done their work; the yard was overgrown with 
weeds, the faded green shutters hung loosely on 
their hinges, and a huge sign “To Let” was nailed 
on one of the pillars of the front gallery. It was 
dreary, dreary, dreary. Even the old fig tree which 
I had so often climbed as a boy, was dead, and its 
gaunt, leafless branches, stood bare against the 
sky. The front fence was bulging outwards, the 
paint was gone, while the oleanders, which had once 
been our garden’s chief beauty, looked weary, 
dusty and bedraggled. I turned from the place 
resolved never to visit it again. It made me sick 
at heart to look at the changes which had taken 
place in the last five years, and to think that the 
old days were gone forever. 

I felt strangely old as I strolled up Market street 
again, and half resolved to return to New York 
by the next steamer. As I thought of it, I saw 


18 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


that there was really no one in town whose acquaint- 
ance I cared to renew. My old friends had probably 
forgotten me as I had forgotten them. 

At the corner of Center and Market streets I 
stopped and watched, for a few minutes, the people 
as they passed. I recognized many faces, and some 
of the people, as I could see by their eyes, half 
recognized me; but I had grown a mustache since 
leaving there, and in other ways also, I suppose, 
had changed greatly, for they passed without 
speaking. Mike, the old fruit man, recognized me, 
however, and I shook hands with him warmly, though 
with my left hand. Then I took a car for the beach. 
As we moved rapidly along, I remarked, as I had 
already done several times that morning, how 
everything had shrunk. I had, before, vaguely 
imagined that Galveston was a large town. 

At the spot where the old Beach Hotel had once 
stood the car stopped and I got out. A strong 
breeze was blowing and the air was cool. I turned 
and faced the gulf. The tide was very high, and 
great waves were dashing against the break-water, 
on the top of which the cars ran. I raised my hat 
and bowed low; then said aloud, half mockingly, 
half seriously, “You, at least, old boy, have not 
changed.” 

A faint laugh sounded behind me, and I wheeled 
around quickly. There, standing hardly ten feet 
from me was a girl, the shadow of a smile still 
hovering on her lips. For a moment I lost my 
self-control and stared at her as though she were 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


19 


a spirit ; for, as I looked, I seemed to be seeing deep 
into her soul, and it was wonderfully beautiful. 
I took a step towards her before I recovered myself, 
then stopped abruptly, and, I believe, blushed. 
But I was more surprised when she also walked 
forward and held out her hand, saying, “I was sure 
that I recognized you — you are Graham Woodhouse.” 

I blessed my mother again in that moment for 
her firmness in having me christened Graham 
instead of John, for the name sounded beautifully 
from her lips. I tried to disengage my right arm 
from its sling in order to take her hand, for in my 
left I was still holding my hat, which I had removed 
when she spoke, when she noticed — which I do not 
think that she had done before — that I was crippled. 
Her expression changed quickly, “You are hurt,'^ 
she said, “I am so sorry. I hope it is not serious?^^ 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I answered, “only a broken 
finger; but serious now because it prevents my 
shaking hands with you.” 

A slight shade of annoyance crossed her face — 
evidently she did not like compliments — but it 
passed quickly, and she spoke again in the same 
pleasant voice with the ring of friendliness in it: 
“When did you return to Galveston?” 

“This morning,” I answered, “I had to stop 
work for a while on account of this accident, and 
thought that I would like to take a last look at 
our old home here.” 

Somehow I was unnerved this day, for as I said 
the word home, a vision of our house, as I had last 


20 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


seen it, rose before my mind; my voice broke, and a 
film of moisture passed before my eyes. I stamped 
my foot angrily: “You must not mind me to-day,’’ 
I said, “I am not myself. I have stepped back 
into the past too suddenly and — and it hurts me.” 

A quick expression of sympathy transfigured 
her face, and again I looked into her soul and saw 
that it was beautiful. We were silent for nearly 
a minute, and both looked seaward, and watched 
the huge breakers dash themselves into foam. An 
electric car jangled by on the track behind us. Its 
passage broke the spell. She turned to me again 
suddenly and asked, “Where is Alice?” 

The question startled me. Who was this girl 
who seemed to know me so well? I paused a 
moment before I answered and looked closely 
at her face. It was strangely familiar, but when 
or where I had known her I could not for the life 
of me imagine. Then I said, “Just now I don’t 
know. She wanders around so much that I have 
lost track of her; but I think that she is in Europe 
somewhere.” 

She must have noticed my hesitation before 
answering, for she looked down while I spoke and 
dug three little holes in the sand with the point 
of her parasol; then she raised her head again and 
said slowly, with what sounded like a note of disap- 
pointment in her voice, “I really do not believe 
that you remember me at all.” 

Then I recognized her. But how she had changed. 
It did not seem possible that this radiant girl before 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


21 


me could be the slim, timid child that I had known 
six years before. Only her eyes were the same, 
though even they seemed to have grown a deeper 
blue. I loosened my arm from the sling. ^^Now 
I must shake hands with you,” I said; “I did not 
recognize you before, but now I do. You are 
Mary Andrews.” 

I held out my hand as I spoke, but she put both 
of hers behind her back and looked up at me tan- 
talizingly, ‘'It’s too late now,” she said, “too late.” 

I laughed and put my arm back in its sling, 
though I felt distinctly disappointed. I remember- 
ed now well the last time I had seen her. I was 
twenty then, nearly twenty-one, and she about 
fifteen. She was to leave shortly for boarding 
school, and had come to our house to spend the 
day with my sister. I had known her slightly 
before, very slightly, as in those days I had a great 
idea of my own dignity, and was ashamed to go 
with little girls for fear that people might consider 
me young. But this day, for some reason, I exerted 
myself to please her. There were only us three to 
lunch, for my mother was not well, *and we had 
a delightful time. We spent all the afternoon 
together, and I read her one of my stories. She 
thought it beautiful — I belonged to the romantic 
school then. In fact, I believe that under the 
admiring sympathy of two young girls— for my 
sister also believed in me — I told them about the 
career I had planned, and how I was to be a great 
author. And then, towards dark, I walked home 


22 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


with her, and I remember that she, also, told me 
many of her dreams. Near her house we came 
to a broad gutter with the wooden crossing under 
water, for it had rained heavily during a part of 
the afternoon, and I lifted her in my arms and 
carried her across. She half protested as I raised 
her up, but afterwards lay quite still, and I 
noticed what a beautiful blue her eyes were, and 
thought about kissing her, but did not. I wondered 
now if she remembered that evening. 

Almost as if in answer to my thought, she said, 
*‘Can you remember the last time you saw me?” 

“Perfectly,” I answered, “I saved your shoes 
from getting wet.” 

“Do you remember that?” she cried, and then 
from the edge of the ribbon round her neck, to 
the oval of her cheeks, she blushed a beautiful 
crimson. 

I looked at her and smiled. “Don’t,” she said, 
and she pressed her lips closely together as if to 
force the color down, “if you laugh at me now I 
will be angry.” 

“I don’t want to laugh,” I answered: “there 
is nothing to laugh about. I only smiled because 
you blushed.” 

“It is a stupid habit of mine. I try to stop it, 
but I can’t; though I don’t blush now as much 
as I used to.” 

“It is a very becoming habit,” I remarked. She 
frowned slightly. “Don’t pay compliments, please. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


23 


I hate them. Now, how long are you going to 
be in town?” 

“Two weeks,” I answered without hesitation, 
for in that moment I had changed my mind about 
leaving, and would have added, if it had not been 
for her warning, “because I have met you,” but 
did not. 

“Then you must come and see me — let me see — ” 
she thought a moment — “come to-morrow afternoon 
at four. And now good-by;” she held out her 
hand, but withdrew it quickly, “Oh, I forgot,” 
she said. Then she gave me a dazzling smile, and 
stepped into a car that was waiting. It started 
almost instantly. Mechanically I raised my left 
hand to my head to remove my hat and bid her 
good-by, when I found that I was still holding it 
in my hand and that I had been standing bare- 
headed during our entire conversation. 

Honestly, I was fazed. I stood blankly staring 
at the rapidly disappearing car until it whirled 
around the corner of 25th Street. Then I took a 
car myself to the hotel and registered. It was now 
about eleven. I got a very fair room on the third 
floor for $17.50 per week. I tried to work the news- 
paper racket, but it would not go. I arranged my- 
self as comfortably as I could by the window, lit a 
cigar and thought. Mary Andrews puzzled me. I 
had heard absolutely nothing about her in six 
years, and really had forgotten her existence, until 
our sudden meeting this morning. Now, I admit. 


24 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


she interested me, and I determined to accept her 
invitation to call. I did not know where she was 
living now, so, as a first preliminary, it was neces- 
sary to find this out. After lunch — a poor one — I 
went down town. It was beastly hot and very few 
people were on the streets. I strolled around aim- 
lessly for a while, looking to see somebody whom I 
knew ; but everybody seemed to be in doors. Finally, 
however, the name of an old chum of mine on a 
lawyer’s sign caught my eye, and I went up-stairs 
to the room indicated to see if it was really he. It 
was: I found him in his shirt-sleeves fanning him- 
self and fighting mosquitoes. He recognized me 
almost instantly, and soon we were deep in old 
times. Gradually I brought the conversation round 
to the present social condition of Galveston, and 
ultimately to Miss Andrews. She had been out 
three years, he said, and was now acknowledged 
to be the queen of the town. Her father had grown 
rich suddenly a year after I had left through a land 
boom, and was now reported to be worth over a 
million. She had had dozens of offers, but so far 
had never been even gossiped about as engaged. A 
young man named Ewing, whose father was the 
richest man in town, was now^paying her attention, 
and it was generally supposed that she would finally 
end by marrying him, as there was no one else with 
a long enough pocket-book to make the running 
against him. They were living now in a house on 
Tremont Street, near Broadway, which was con- 
sidered to be the handsomest in town. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


25 


I stayed in Howland office a couple of hours and 
then took a walk along Tremont Street. Here a 
livery stable caught my eye and an idea occurred 
to me. I was feeling very restless from lack of ex- 
ercise, and, as it was too hot to walk, a horseback 
ride would be just the thing. It was a crazy thought 
for a man with an arm in a sling, but it seemed 
quite rational then, so I went in and looked at the 
horses. I had ridden but very little since I had lived 
in New York, though once I had been a very good 
rider. But I was disappointed as there was not a 
single decent riding horse in the stable. This, 
together with the heat, put me in a very bad humor, 
and, as I rode out to the beach again in a street car, 
I changed my mind about staying and decided to 
return by the next steamer. 

But the cool breeze from the gulf calmed me down, 
and later, when I had dined at one of the restau- 
rants, lighted my cigar and taken a comfortable 
seat on the gallery where I could watch the crowd, 
I was sorry that I could not stay a month. 

The next morning I went down to the offices of the 
company and exchanged my ticket, and arranged 
to sail on the steamer leaving Saturday week. 
Then, having nothing to do until the afternoon, I 
went to Howland’s office. He was not fighting 
mosquitoes this time, but was practicing on his 
type-writer. Business was very dull, he said, as all 
the courts were closed. We talked for a while, then 
went into a rear room, which served him as a bed- 
room, and played a game of chess, leaving the door 


26 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


open, however, to watch for possible clients. He 
beat me, for I was out of practice, though from his 
game I judged myself to be the better player. Then 
I went back to the hotel and loafed around until 
lunch. After lunch I went to my room, undressed, 
hauled the bed to the window, through which a 
strong breeze was blowing, put down the mosquito- 
bar, and read until three. Then I took a sponge 
bath, dressed in the coolest clothes I had, with a 
belt in lieu of a waistcoat, and, at just four, rang 
the bell of Miss Andrew^s father’s house. It was a 
pretentious place, in hideous taste, and I felt vaguely 
angry with her for living in it. A negro boy in but- 
tons opened the door and took my hat and cane. 
He grinned so pleasantly when I handed him my 
card that it warmed my heart to look at him. He 
showed me into the drawing-room, and then went 
to advise his mistress. It was quite dark, though all 
the windows were open, as, besides the Venetian 
blinds which were turned downwards to exclude the 
light, there were wire nettings fitted into the window 
frames to keep out the mosquitoes. I was still 
looking round the room, before seating myself, 
when Miss Andrews entered. She was dressed in 
some loosely hanging sort of white thing with open 
sleeves — a tea gown, possibly — and looked like the 
picture of some angel, though her face had more ex- 
pression than angels faces generally wear. She 
took my hand this time, my right hand, and clasped 
it lightly, though, as it was covered with a black 
silk handkerchief, I hardly felt her touch. We sat 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


27 


down near one of the windows, and she asked me 
about my sister Alice and I told her what I knew. 
She kept her eyes fixed on me while I was speaking, 
and seemed to be studying me, for presently she 
said, “You have changed greatly, I wonder now that 
I recognized you yesterday.” 

“Hardly as much as you have,” I answered, “for 
I did not recognize you at all; and I fear that our 
changes have been in opposite directions, for I have 
deteriorated while you have improved.” 

She laughed slightly, “I would not be too sure of 
that,” she said, “for you do not know me at all.” 

And this was true. As we talked I became vague- 
ly conscious that the woman before me was not the 
same as the girl of yesterday — the sympathy be- 
tween us was gone. Even her voice was not always 
natural, and before I left it became clear to me that 
the narrow life she had been leading for the past 
few years, with no other society than that of the 
half-educated young men of a small town, had been 
slowly smothering her true nature. But she was 
beautiful, though, and wonderfully attractive, and 
once or twice, in response to some remark of mine, 
her real self would flash forth for an instant. It was 
this which caused me to retain my interest in her — 
to see if I could not penetrate thoroughly through 
the hide which conventionality had wrapped around 
her. 

The next evening I saw her at the Garten Verein 
dancing with a tall, smooth-faced young fellow, 
rather stout, and not bad looking at first sight, but 


28 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


with a stingy expression, whom Howland, who had 
accompanied me, told me was Ewing. On general 
principles I disliked him immediately; I also saw 
her sister — a blurred image of her in which the soul 
had never entered — and her brother, a conceited 
young man with eye-glasses and a blonde mustache. 
Howland introduced me to them both, and also to a 
number of other men and girls, and I spent a very 
pleasant evening, though I did not get a chance to 
say a word' to Mary Andrews. She gave me a nice 
smile once, however, when we passed each other on 
one of the paths — she walking with Ewing, and I 
with a girl whose name was Miss Kate Wallace. 

Thursday I saw her driving on the beach with a 
man I did not know, and Friday I met her on a boat 
sail. She was again with Ewing. Saturday, in the 
morning, I met her down town — she was shopping. 
I joined her, and we had some ice-cream together. 
She told me that I could call the next evening late, 
if I wished, and to out-stay the other men. 

She really had her admirers beautifully trained, for 
when, about ten, she called me to her side with a 
glance, they all dutifully left. Then we went into 
the dining-room and had supper together. This 
night she was charming, and we talked until nearly 
twelve. She told me about her life since the evening 
that I carried her across the raging gutter and 
something of her day-dreams; while I, in return, told 
her such parts of my life as could safely be repeated. 
We parted such close friends that I was entirely un- 
prepared the next afternoon to have her pass me on 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


29 


the beach — I was driving with Miss Wallace, my 
Garten Verein friend, and on whom I had called the 
previous Thursday with Howland; and she with 
Ewing — and pretend not to see me, leaving me 
with a frozen smile on my face, the reins between 
my keens, and my one well hand rigidly grasping 
the brim of my hat. Miss Wallace laughed, “That^s 
Mary,^’ she said, ^^she must like you very much.^^ 

“She takes a peculiar method of showing it then,” 
I answered, “and I don’t think that she will ever 
have another opportunity.” I really meant this at 
the time, and Wednesday at the Garten Verein — I 
was again with Miss Wallace — I would not look at 
her, though twice, while dancing, she looked to- 
wards the spot where I was sitting. 

But when Friday came— my last day — my reso- 
lution went to the winds. I had to see Miss An- 
drews again. I wrote her several long letters for 
practice, and then sent the following note: 

^'^Dear Miss Andrews: — 

“My steamer leaves to-morrow at daylight, and I 
must go on board to-night; may I see you before I go to 
say good-by?” 

In about half an hour I received her answer. I 
was almost afraid to open it; but I did, and this is 
what I read: 

“Dear Mr. Woodhouse: — 

“We are going bathing this evening, and will be 
pleased to see you if you care to join us afterwards. 

^Sincerely, 

“Mary Andrews.”. 


30 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


It was not what might be called a pressing invi- 
tation; but it gave me the permission I wished, 
which was, after all, the main thing. I was very 
busy the remainder of the day packing, and saying 
good-by to my different acquaintances. I called on 
Miss Wallace in the afternoon, for we had become 
very good friends, and she clasped her hands and 
pretended to weep, when I told her that I was really 
going the next day. Then I returned to the hotel, 
sent my things down to the steamer, and paid my 
bill. It left me with $25.00 in notes, and a little loose 
change. Where the rest had gone I don’t know, for 
I had spent absolutely nothing on myself — possibly 
on candy and flowers, certainly not on drinks, for, 
except this day, I had not taken half a dozen 
during my entire stay in Galveston. I say except 
this day, for, during the afternoon, I had begun 
drinking; not heavily, but enough to make me feel 
it. 

At half past six, as I was about to go in to dinner, 
it suddenly occurred to me that Miss Andrews’ 
evening might, in the southern way, mean afternoon, 
in which case, if I dined, I might miss her. I im- 
mediately abandoned all idea of dinner, hurried 
down stairs to the saloon, took a pretty stiff toddy, 
ate some cheese and crackers and took a car to the 
bathing house, which was almost opposite Tremont 
Street. I went to the desk and asked the clerk if 
the Andrews family had been there yet. He replied 
that he had not seen them that season. This 
knocked me out completely. It had not even oc- 


IMAGINARY STORY 


31 


curred to me before that they would go to any other , 
place; but now I saw that there was every reason 
for their not going there, but to one of the more 
quiet places along the beach, for the crowd at the 
Pagoda was generally pretty badly mixed. There 
were two other large bathing-houses — one at the 
foot of 25th Street and the other at the foot of 
21st — besides a number of small bath-houses on 
wheels, each capable of holding but a single person. 

I decided on these. There was a long row of them 
near 26th Street, and another long row in the opposite 
direction — probably about 20th Street. I chose the 
26th Street ones. For safety, however, I stopped, 
in passing, at the large bath-house on 25th Street, 
but they were not there. As I neared the small 
bath-houses, I looked seaward, between intervals of 
dodging carriages and buggies, and saw that some 
eight or ten of them had been rolled dowm to the 
edge of the surf ; but the tide was low, and the bathers 
themselves were too far out to be distinguished. I 
turned towards one of the houses rolled back from 
the shore, and which appeared to be the office, to 
make inquiries. A lady, who had been sitting on a . 
camp stool near the door, started up as I approached 
and said half questioningly, and, as it seemed to me, 
almost timidly, ‘‘Mr. Woodhouse?’’ 

I recognized her instantly as Mary’s mother, 
though I had never seen her before. She was a 
slender woman, not very tall, and her face bore 
traces of former beauty; but it was a very sad face, 
and showed plainly that years of hardship, or some 


32 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


, great sorrow, had almost broken her spirit. I raised 
my hat and said in my nicest voice, “Mrs. Andrews, 
isn’t it?” 

She smiled assent and we shook hands, I with my 
left, and she said nervously, “Mary remembered 
after she had answered your note that she had not 
told you which bathing place we were going to, and 
as there are so many she was afraid that you might 
miss the right one, so I promised to stay here and 
when you passed to speak to you and let you know 
accidently — ” she stopped abriiptly, and a most 
comical look of horror passed over her face. “What 
have I done,” she cried, “Mary will kill me. You 
were not to be told.” And then she laughed, and 
her face changed as if by magic, and became young 
again. I laughed with her, for her words had made me 
suddenly light-hearted, and in that instant we be- 
came friends. I brought out another stool and 
sat down beside her. At first we talked about in- 
different things, and her embarrassed manner began 
to return, then I got her to talk about Mary and her 
interest revived. Soon I did not have to say any- 
thing, but just listen. She lived only in Mary: you 
could feel it in her voice. She told me many things 
about her that interested me greatly; some of which 
I knew would make her daughter wild to have told ; 
but she was absolutely unconscious. I do not sup- 
pose that she had ever met a more perfect listener, 
for I was not only interested in her talk, but was a 
trained interviewer besides. We both grew so ab- 
sorbed toward the end that we did not see that the 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


33 


bathers had returned to their houses, and it was 
not until the first bath-house came lumbering in 
that we realized how time had passed. I began to 
puzzle now, as one after another the houses 
were lined up back of us, in which one was Mary. I 
did not like to ask, so amused myself by imagining. 
I finally selected a neat looking house with the 
words, “Use TutUs Little Liver Pills,” painted in 
large black letters on its side. I do not think that I 
connected Mary anyway in my mind with TutUs 
Little Liver Pills, but somehow I was certain that 
she was in it. 1 was wrong, however, for it was the 
first house to open its door, and out of it came Mr. 
Andrews. I had seen him once or twice before on 
the street, but had never been introduced, so Mrs. 
Andrews now presented me to him. He was a fairly 
tall, bony-looking niian, with a short mustache and 
beard, both thickly streaked with grey. His face 
had been cast in a rough mould, and spoke hardness 
in every line. I could understand now, as I looked 
at him, why his wife’s spirit seemed broken. He 
was apparently trying to be genial this evening, how- 
ever, and spoke to me pleasantly about my father; 
but geniality did not sit naturally on him, and I got 
a truer insight into his character a few minutes 
later when he was settling for the baths, for he was 
insisting, rather angrily, on the bath-house keeper 
charging for but one bath when two people occupied 
the same room. How he finally settled it I don’t 
know, for others of the party began to come out and 
I ceased listening. There were more than I had 


34 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


anticipated, for, besides Mr. Andrews, there was the 
son Walter, Mary, her sister, a still younger sister, 
a friend of hers, two boys of sixteen or seventeen, 
Ewing, and a good natured sort of fellow named 
McManus. I knew them all except the kids. Mary 
and Ellen, the middle sister, were the last to ap- 
pear. It amused me, after what her mother had 
told me, to have Mary greet me with studied in- 
difference, and then turn to talk to Ewing, between 
whom and myself a natural antipathy was beginning 
to develop. It angered me also, and I determined 
that the first advances would have to come from her. 

I was much relieved when we boarded a Garten 
Verein car, to learn that we were to take supper at 
the Garten, for, by this time, I was beginning to feel 
very hungry. Arriving there I found that a table 
had been prepared for us under the trees, and that 
a cold supper was already spread out. We all sat 
down, I with Mrs. Andrews on my right and the 
youngest sister on my left. Mr. Andrews sat at the 
head of the table. Next to him on the opposite side 
was Ellen, and then McManus, the other little girl 
and one of the boys, and Mary and Ewing. On 
my side next to Bessie, the youngest sister, was the 
other boy and the son Walter. The instant we sat 
down a constraint fell upon us. Nobody seemed 
able to talk. We ate our food silently. Bessie and 
her friend exchanged an occasional giggle across the 
table, but were too much embarrassed by my pres- 
ence to say a word aloud. Mary and Ewing spoke 
together now and then in a low voice, as did Ellen 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


35 


and McManus, but it could hardly be called conver- 
sation. Mrs. Andrews had shrunk into herself, 
Walter and his father were absorbed in eating, and 
I — I who had counted on this evening all day — was 
in one of the most disagreeable positions of my life. 
I had intended to shine, and instead my light was 
fading. 

For the effects of the drinks that I had taken 
during the afternoon were now beginning to wear 
off, and I felt myself sinking into a stupid state and 
hovering on the ragged edge of sleep. If I could 
leave the table for a minute and get another drink I 
knew from experience that I would be all right, but 
this I could not do without exciting comment. 
Again and again my eyelids drifted downwards, but 
I forced them up each time by a terrific exertion of 
will. Fortunately my face was in shadow, and no 
one was watching me closely enough to discover 
my real condition. Conversation would have helped 
me, but as I have said there was none. 

How it would have finally ended I don't know; I 
would, I suppose, have struggled through, though I 
was approaching so near to the limit of my powers 
that I was thinking of jabbing my knife in my hand 
accidentally in order to have an excuse to leave the 
table, when I noticed, as Mrs. Andrews raised her 
glass to her lips to take a drink of water, that it was 
empty. She looked round for the waiter, but he 
had gone inside. My chance had come. I took the 
glass from her quickly and rose from my seat, brac- 
ing myself for a final effort: 


36 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


“I will bring you some water/’ I said. 

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” she exclaimed, “the 
waiter will be here in an instant.” 

“It is none at all,” I answered with perfect truth- 
fulness, and then hurried away before she could 
reply. 

At the bar of the club house, which was some 
fifty yards distant, I ordered a whiskey and gulped 
it down quickly, and then leaving the glass to be 
filled with ice-water, rushed to the toilet room and 
bathed my face well with water. 

When I returned I took another drink of whiskey, 
and then, with my glass of ice-water, hurried back 
to the table where the others were sitting. Mrs. 
Andrews thanked me very nicely, and seemed quite 
grateful: she was evidently not accustomed to small 
attentions. I certainly did not deserve gratitude 
this time, though I would have done the same thing 
if the case had been different. The relief I now felt 
was enormous, and my spirits rose. The last whis- 
key had put me on edge. I was not in the least 
drunk, but all the recklessness of my character was 
rising in me, and I was ready for anything from 
pitch and toss to manslaughter. 

The conversation round the table was still languish- 
ing, so I decided to start it going. It was a hard 
crowd to work on, but I had handled worse before, 
and knew that if I could once get an opening, my 
own spirits would affect them. I started with Bessie, 
very , very gently, until I got her talking,then I brought 
in Mrs. Andrews, and presently Mr. Andrews. Soon 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


37 


McManus fell into line, and later, Ellen. She was 
already beginning to dislike me, but this night I 
conquered her. The tv/o boys and the other girl 
were easy victims, and even Walter joined in. Only 
Mary and Ewing held off. Their own private con- 
versation had died out, and Ewing was leaning back 
sullenly in his chair. But the others were entirely 
mine, and I played with them as a showman might 
with his puppets. At first the conversation rested 
entirely in my hands, and I had a stock of stories and 
anecdotes which had born the brunt of many a 
lurid evening, and which, expurgated, would do for 
any crowd; but it did not suit my purpose to be the 
only speaker, so when I got them moving I shifted 
the ball from one to another, and only held the 
strmgs. Whenever I could I got in a shot at Mary, 
which only she could understand, and I could see 
that I was making her angry, which gave me con- 
siderable pleasure. 

We must have stayed at table nearly an hour. 
It was not until the waiter brought the bill that we 
thought of rising. Mr. Andrew's glanced over it 
carefully, but did not dispute an item ; he even gave 
the waiter half a dollar. Then Mrs. Andrews suggested 
home. But the children would not hear of this, 
and began playing a game of tag, in which every- 
body, gradually, joined, except Mr. and Mrs. Andrews 
and myself. We watched them quietly for a few 
minutes; then Mary, who was ‘Tf’ ran up to her 
mother, and, touching her lightly on the arm, said 
“Tag.’^ 


38 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


Mrs. Andrews turned quickly and touched me, 
^‘Tag,” she said. 

“That’s not fair,” I exclaimed, “I’m a cripple.” 
She started to answer me, but Mary interposed, 
“Cripple,” she said scornfully, “I don’t believe 
you’ve been hurt at all. You should say that you 
consider tag too childish a game for you to take 
part in.” 

It was a most unexpected attack, and such an 
unjust one, that my anger against her, which had 
been smouldering all the evening, blazed up fiercely, 
and all my scruples about risking my finger flew 
to the winds. I turned to Ewing, who had drawn 
near while we were talking, and said, “Start, I 
am going to catch you.” 

He accepted it as the challenge which it was 
meant to be, and moved away slowly as I walked 
towards him. In an instant Mary w^as at my side. 
“Don’t, Mr. Woodhouse,” she cried, “please don’t; 
I did not mean what I said at all.” 

I only looked at her. My anger was at a white 
heat now and must have shown in my eyes, for 
she stopped suddenly as if I had struck her; and 
I, without a word, started after Ewdng, who had 
now commenced running. He was far more active 
than I thought — I learnt afterwards that he had 
been for a while at college, though he had never 
graduated, and had had some athletics drummed 
into him — and for fifty yards I did not gain an 
inch. Then he began tiring, and I crept up. The 
path we were on ran in a curve to the dancing 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


39 


pavilion, and was probably a hundred and fifty 
yards. Before we reached the end of it I was 
within a few feet of him, and gaining rapidly. Then 
he dodged. I tried to dodge also, but my arm 
being still in a sling, hampered me, and I slipped 
and nearly fell. Before I recovered myself he 
was ten yards away, and running to where we had 
left the rest of the party. I gained on him again 
rapidly, and caught up with him when we were 
within twenty feet of the others. I stretched 
out my hand to touch him, when he caught a tree 
with his right hand and swung around it. Again 
I lost ground, but I was now between him and 
the crowd and was chasing him away. For 
a few yards we continued in a straight line over 
the lawn, but he had now discovered my weakness, 
and at the next tree he came to he swung around 
it and made straight for the spot where Mary was 
standing. The table, at which we had taken supper, 
was between them. 

Everybody was now taldng an interest in our 
race, and the younger children were shouting out 
words of encouragement tome, for Ewing did not 
seem to be a favorite with them. I was still four or 
five yards behind him. If I killed myself I was 
going to catch him. I knew he would dodge again 
as soon as he reached the table. If I tried to follow 
him I would lose. There was but one thing to 
do: I must jump the table. It was a dangerous 
jump, for, besides being more than usually high, 
it was fully five feet wide. But my mind was 


40 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


made up. As we neared the table he, as I ex- 
pected, swerved to the left, and prepared to grab 
the corner with his right hand and swing himself 
around. I did not swerve, but made straight 
for the center. He caught the edge, almost up- 
setting it, and stopped himself on the other side 
within ten feet of Mary. I had only been a few 
feet behind when he first swerved, and now, as 
he turned the second corner, I rose to clear the 
table. I was over it before he could move. I 
could have prevented what followed, though to 
the others it looked like an accident, and that 
I was only trying to save myself; for as we were 
about to strike, I put out my left hand and grabbed 
him by the collar, and then, stiffening my arm 
suddenly, transferred my momentum to him and 
drove him to the ground. He landed heavily 
with me on top. I was up almost instantly, and 
helped him to his feet, meanwhile apologizing. 
He did not take my apologies very kindly, however, 
for he was too raging to speak — indeed, it seemed 
as if I had transferred all my anger to him also, 
for, though badly winded, I once more felt calm 
and pleasant and at peace with all the world. 

Looking at the matter from his standpoint, 
however, I can hardly blame him for being angry, 
for I had gripped him so hard that I had torn 
open his collar and the front of his shirt, while 
his face had gathered up a quantity of dirt and his 
nose was bleeding. He was immediately surrounded 
by all the party and great sympathy was expressed. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


41 


I rather expected him to fight, and I think that 
there would have been one, notwithstanding the 
presence of the ladies, if Mr. Andrews and Mc- 
Manus had not led him away to the club-house 
before he fully realized what had happened. The 
others now gathered up their belongings preparatory 
to leaving, and I joined Mary. I was feeling a 
little frightened, now that the excitement was over, 
and it was with a very humble voice that I asked, as 
I stood beside her, ‘‘Am I to walk home with you?” 

She looked downwards for nearly a minute before 
she answered, then, still looking downwards, said, 
“I would not have had this happen for anything, and 
the hard part for me is that I feel that I am to 
blame.” 

She paused for another distinct interval, then, 
■Suddenly raising her head and looking me straight 
in the eyes, she asked, “Did you do that on purpose?” 

I felt like saying “No,” and might have if she 
had been somebody else, though I really dislike 
lies and am annoyed every time policy forces me 
to tell one; but with her looking at me in that way 
it was out of the question, so I answered, “It was 
not exactly on purpose; when I sprang to clear 
the table my only thought was to catch him before 
he reached you; when I saw that we had to strike, 
I tried to make the blow as hard as I could.” 

She gave a little half sigh as if of relief, “I am 
glad, at least, that you have told me the truth,” she 
said; “I felt from the first that something serious 
would happen. It is fortunate that it is no worse — ” 


42 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


she paused a moment — “I never saw such a look in a 
man’s eyes as I did in yours. I know, now, how a 
devil can look when he is torturing some poor soul.” 

^‘Thanks,” I remarked. 

She looked up at me with one of her quick smiles; 
'‘I don’t really mean to say that,” she said, “but 
you frightened me, and — and then you know that 
the devil is not really as black as he is painted.” 
She stopped again, and swung the little hand bag in 
which she carried, I suppose, her powder and brushes, 
“Yes, you are to walk home with me,” she said 
finally, “I told Mr. Ewing that I had an engage- 
ment with you. We may as well start now. But, 
oh, how angry I am with you. If it were not that 
you are going away tomorrow, and that I shall never 
see you again, I would not speak to you for a month.” 

I did not think it advisable to make any answer to 
this, but took her satchel from her and started with 
her towards the gate. It was a beautiful night, 
and, as we passed out of the glare of the electric 
lights, we could see the moon racing through the 
clouds overhead. We did not talk much on our way 
home, though we must have walked very slowly, for 
when we reached the house we found that the others 
had already arrived and gone inside. 

. It had been altogether a most unsatisfactory 
evening. I had said nothing that I had intended 
to say, and though I had downed Emng, I had done 
it at the cost of making her angry. All my beautiful 
plans had come to naught. Several times I tried to 
give the conversation a turn in the direction I 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


43 


wished it to take, but she had not responded. Her 
will was braced against mine, and I was out of 
spirits now, and had not the strength to oppose it. 
There seemed to be nothing to do except to say 
good bye, so, after lingering a moment, I raised my 
hat and held out my hand. 

“Good bye,” she said; I repeated the words and 
turned. The moon was flooding us with light. ■ I 
looked at it a moment before I walked away. Though 
I could not see her, I could feel that she had not 
moved. I turned again, “Why don’t you go in?” 
I asked. 

“I think I have as much right to look at the moon 
as you have,” she answered, with a little laugh. I 
stepped back to the gate quickly. “Miss Andrews,” 
I said, “say something kind to me before I go. 
You don’t know how much I have counted on this 
evening. It seems to me that it is a turning point 
in my life. Since I have met you everything has 
changed. No woman I have ever known has in- 
fluenced me as you have. If I leave now without 
a word from you to help me I can see my future 
clearly. It will be but a repetition of my past : — good 
resolutions and bad actions.” 

I paused, while she leaned on the gate and swung 
her hat idly. Suddenly she looked up, and I saw 
that her eyes were flashing. “Do you want to 
know what I really think of you,” she said, “I think 
that if any man ever merited contempt, it is you. 
Do you remember that day at your old home? 
How you told us two children your plans : I believed 


44 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


in you then. But what have you done with your 
life since? You have told me enough — you have 
wasted it absolutely. You are very clever — I have 
never met a more clever man — but you have no 
principle — you are lazy and weak — and now you 
tell me that you need my aid to help you. A man 
who has not strength enough to raise himself through 
his own will is beneath contempt.’^ Then she 
turned and walked towards the house. 

I stood for an instant longer by the gate, then 
slowly walked towards the center of the town. Her 
attack was so sudden that it left me without a reply 
— if there was a reply. I do not think that I was 
angry; I do not think that I was sorry; for the 
moment my feelings were numbed. At Henryks 
I stopped. A number of men I knew were in there. 
Somebody asked me to take a drink and I took it. 
Then somebody proposed shaking dice and I joined 
in. We talked and laughed and they wished me a 
pleasant voyage. I was with them a couple of 
hours. I drank a great deal, but it did not effect 
me. I separated from them about one, and con- 
tinued on my way to the steamer, on board of which 
I had decided to pass the night. But at Market 
street I changed my mind and went to a little variety 
theatre on the corner of 25th street. The place 
was full. The performance was over, but the women 
beer-drinkers were dancing for the price of a drink. 
They were the usual crowd: painted, short skirted, 
dissipated. I took one and danced with her, then 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


45 


treated her to beer. We had several beers together, 
but I felt no real interest in her and soon left. 

It was about two when I reached the steamer. 
There was still activity below, where the longshore- 
men were loading freight; but the stateroom deck 
was almost deserted. After wandering around some 
time I finally found a sleepy waiter, and ordered a 
bottle of whiskey. With this, a glass, and some 
cigars, I moved to the hurricane deck. I sat down 
and began to think. The mosquitoes were bad, 
though after I lit my cigar they did not bother me 
so much. It was still a beautiful night, but the 
clouds were gathering, and it looked like rain. For 
over an hour I drank my whiskey slowly and smoked 
before the outlines of my plan began to take shape 
in my mind. Mary’s words had pierced me deeply 
— deeply, because I felt that they were nearly true. 
I was not quite so much to blame as she thought, 
but almost so. I had wasted my opportunities. 
Dawn came before I had fully made up my mind. 
In one thing she was entirely right — the man who 
has not enough strength to raise himself by his own 
will is beneath contempt. But there was one 
point that she had overlooked: Did I really care 
enough for success to go through the trouble neces- 
sary to obtain it. This time I decided that I did, 
and that I had the will to keep my resolution. The 
signs of the coming day grew stronger. The bustle 
below increased. Bright tints appeared on the 
eastern horizon. When the edge of the sun should 


46 


IMAGINARY STORY 


rise above the waters I would stop smoking and 
drinking and all my vices until I saw Mary again. 
I lit another cigar and filled my glass with whiskey. 
I sipped the latter slowly as I watched for the 
critical moment. It seemed a very long time 
coming. Suddenly a streak of gold appeared 
below the dark line of clouds, and I threw my 
bottle and cigar overboard, and went down to 
my cabin. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


47 


III. 

When I awoke we were at sea, and the rain was 
pouring down heavily. It took me some time 
to realize my position. When I came on deck 
the gong was sounding for dinner. I felt a certain 
gladness to which I had been a stranger for many 
a day. Sunday I took the plaster from my finger. 
It had knitted well, and though it pained me some 
for the next few days, and puffed up like a boiled 
sausage, by the time we reached New York it was 
almost as strong as ever. I went to work imme- 
diately, and for nearly six months toiled harder than I 
had ever done in my life. Stopping smoking was the 
hardest of all. For the first month I was miserable, 
and it interfered greatly with my work ; but gradu- 
ally the lost feeling wore away, and my health became 
better than ever before. I could also work longer. 

Shortly after my arrival I bought a typewriter 
on the installment plan, and devoted myself reso- 
lutely to learn it. At first it seemed a hopeless 
task, but after some weeks I was able to strike 
the keys mechanically, and then it became a pleasure. 
As soon as I was out of debt I began to save, and 
to watch my money grow was another source of 
satisfaction. It did not grow very fast, but it 
grew steadily. I was making twenty or thirty 
dollars a week, over and above my salary, by 
writing special stories for the Sunday papers— 
the magazines, however, still refused to print me. 


48 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


During this time I often and often thought of 
Mary. Indeed, I had to make a resolution not to 
think of her until after I had finished my work. 
She seemed to twist herself into everything. I 
do not know when it was that I finally acknowledged 
to myself that I was in love with her, but it was 
long before the cold weather came. She was the 
mainspring of my life. And she helped me, too; 
for, of course, 1 had my days of depression — espe- 
cially after some story that I had based great hopes 
upon came back from the magazines — I would think 
that I was fighting for her, and it would give me 
courage to begin again. 

I am afraid that I gradually grew to idealize 
Mary. I had noticed when I was in Galveston 
that she had faults like other women, but these 
I forgot now; she became to me something of a 
vision steadily beckoning me onward. 

On the first of December the longing to see her 
again became too strong to be resisted. I had 
all along indefinitely decided to see her on Christmas, 
and now I arranged my plans so as to do so in 
reality. I had six hundred dollars, nearly, for I 
had been making money more rapidly towards 
- the end and spending almost nothing, and this, with 
care, would give me six months in Galveston. 
I had long planned a novel, and would write it 
there. 

I worked until the 20th of December, then 
resigned my position on the paper. I had already 
told my friend, the city editor, that I would prob- 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


49 


ably go some days before. The next day, the 
21st, I took the train. I carried my typewriter 
with me, and such of my belongings as I thought 
that I might need; the remainder I put in storage. 
For three days I was en route, and more restless 
than I had ever been since I can remember; but 
at last the journey came to an end, and on the 
moriiing of the 24th of December I found myself 
again in Galveston. Once more there was nobody 
to meet me, as I had written nobody that I was 
coming. 

My first step on arrival was to look up Howland. 
I had decided, if possible, to take a room in the 
same building that he was in. I found him as 
friendly as ever, and the room business was arranged 
without difficulty — one adjoining his, with the 
use of his office at night, if I needed it. We had 
no chance to talk during the morning, as he was 
finishing up some papers to file tefore the holidays. 
I spent the time unpacking my trunks and arrang- 
ing my room. About noon his work was over, 
and we took a stroll on the streets. They were 
crowded, but we saw none of our immediate circle, 
except a few of the men. We took lunch together 
at one of the restaurants on Market street, and 
while eating this I gathered up such items of news 
as were interesting to me. Not much had happened, 
Howland said, since, his last letter — we had corres- 
ponded intermittently — nobody had married and 
nobody of any importance had died. The season of 
dances and opened the month before and promised to 


50 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


be very gay. There had been two Germans already 
this week, and Miss Wallace was to give one this 
night. I was immediately interested. I had been 
wondering how I was going to meet Mary, as I was 
afraid to call without first obtaining her permission. 

I had heard nothing from her directly since I had 
been away, except once when I sent her a book; 
but her letter of thanks then had been so formal 
that I had not deemed it advisable to write to 
her again. If she was going to this German it. 
would give me the opportunity I wanted. Now 
that I had plenty of time I determined to make 
my advances with great caution. She was going, 
for Howland said he that had an engagement to 
take her. 

“The deuce you have,” I remarked, “I thought 
you told me when I was here last summer that you 
were not chums.” 

“Oh, we’re not, particularly,” he answered, “it’s 
only a little by-play. She’s using me to keep Ewing 
in order.” He paused a moment to finish his soup, 
then continued, “She is one of the cleverest girls 
in town and the biggest flirt. I know that she 
does not give a rap for me, but she has been en- 
couraging me outrageously for the last few months, 
and I’m supposed to be Ewing’s rival. I am only 
second best, however, as I know very well, for 
I have not money enough to make the running 
against him.” 

I suppose all men hate to see the clay of which 
their idol is made brought roughly into view, and 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


51 


Howland’s cold-blooded words hurt me; but I 
have pretty good control over the outward expres- 
sion of my feelings, so merely said, “Well, what 
do you submit to it for?” 

“Oh, I don’t know; it don’t make much difference. 
I can’t help liking her some in spite of it, and the 
house is a very pleasant one to call at, and then” — 
he laughed lightly — “it helps me to keep somebody 
else in order. By the by,” he continued, after a 
moment occupied in breaking off and eating the 
claw of a soft-shell crab, “you had better go to 
Miss Wallace’s to-night; there will be no trouble 
about the invitation.” 

I was aware of this, and had already decided 
to ask her for one. From the restaurant we returned 
to his rooms, and from there telephoned to Miss 
Wallace. Howland called her up, but when he 
told her that I was in town, she asked to speak 
with me, and we talked for quite a while. The 
invitation to her house that night she gave me 
without my even hinting for it. During the afternoon 
I bought a few cheap things that I would need; a 
cot, washstand and pitcher, and a chair — my 
bedding I had brought with me — and a bureau; 
and then, later in the afternoon, I went to the 
Chess and Whist club with Howland. He got 
me a ticket for a month, and also put up my name 
as a member. We played a game of chess together, 
and I beat him badly. We played another which 
I also won. He shoved the men together and 
looked at me critically: “What have you been 


52 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


doing with yourself?” he asked finally. ^‘You 
are looking better than 1 have ever seen you. Ah, 
I have it, you’ve stopped smoking. It did not 
seem natural to see you without a cigar in your 
mouth.” 

“Yes,” I answered, “I’ve reformed.” And then, 
suddenly, as I spoke the words, the wildest longing 
to smoke came over me. I remembered that my 
resolution was only until I saw Mary again. 
And I was to see her this evening. I had thought 
that I had stopped forever, but now I knew that 
I had only held off through the strength of my will, 
and that the devil was still strong within me. 

We took supper together that evening in the 
same restaurant where we had dined, and w^here, 
it seemed, Howland always took his meals. I 
decided to board there also. He ordered Vhat 
he pleased, and they gave him twenty per cent 
discount on the list prices at the end of the month. 
At this meal he ordered a bottle of wine, and was 
much surprised when I refused to join him. “I 
suppose you’ll say that you have given up women, 
too,” he remarked scornfully, “seeing that you 
have become so virtuous.” 

“I have,” I answered. 

He laughed jeeringly. “And how long are these 
noble resolutions going to last?” 

“They are going to last as long as I say they 
shall.” 

“Really? Well, anyhow you have my sympathy. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


53 


I wish I could stop smoking. It is horribly ex- 
pensive.” 

After supper we returned to our rooms to dress 
for the evening. About half-past eight Howland 
left me — dances begin early in Galveston — and 
a little later I also started for Miss Wallace's. Nearly 
everybody had arrived when I reached there, and 
the rooms were well filled. I left my overcoat 
and hat in the men’s dressing-room, and got a 
program. When I went downstairs again, dancing 
had already begun. I did not see Mary at first, 
but after I had worked my way into the second 
drawing-room, I saw her standing in a little 
alcove, the center of a crowd of men. She 
looked in her ball-dress even more beautiful than 
my memory of her. I did not know how she would 
receive me, but walked towards her boldly. She 
smiled, however, as I approached, and when I 
reached her side gave me her hand. ^^See what 
I have done for you,” she said, ^‘Mr. Howland 
told me that you were coming, so I have saved you 
a dance. Are you not obliged?” and she handed 
me her program, which was attached to her fan. 

''You are kind as always,” I answered, and I 
took the fan and program. It was filled already, 
except one dance, which was marked with a cross. 
"This one?” I asked. She nodded, and I wrote 
my name. "How very nice it is,” I said, as I 
handed her back her program, "to see you again.” 
She smiled and said, "Thank you.” Then some- 


54 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


body else claimed her attention, and I withdrew. 

I fairly writhed mentally with rage. Such 
boobyish, inane, idiotic conversation at our first 
meeting since that night. And yet 1 was not to 
blame. The girl had me hypnotized. The speech 
I had planned to make to her deserted me as I 
looked into her eyes, and my blood turned to' ice in 
my veins. 

With gloom in my heart and a smile on my face 
I made my way back through the rooms, greeting 
as I went those of my past summer^s acquaintances 
who remembered me. Presently, across the room, 
I saw Miss Wallace, and walked over to speak to 
her. She welcomed me far more cordially than 
Miss Andrews had, and let me take two dances, 
scratching out some of the other men’s names to 
do so, for her program was already full. From 
her I turned to the others, and soon had as many 
dances as I cared for; the part after supper I left 
blank. 

The German progressed as Germans do. I 
danced and distributed my favors between Miss 
Wallace and Miss Andrews, and was favored once 
by each of them. Mary danced divinely. She 
asked me a few questions about myself while we 
were together, but we did not talk much. I was 
still too disgusted with my previous failure to 
indulge in any more inanities, and a favor figure 
in a German is not a good place for serious conver- 
sation. I decided to wait until our dance came. 
It was the next to the last on the program before 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


55 


supper. The previous dance I happened to have 
disengaged, and immediately that the music stopped 
I joined Mary, who had been dancing with Howland. 
After a minute or two he excused himself, and 
at last I found myself alone with her. We took 
a seat on the stairs, about half way up, in a quiet 
corner formed by the bend and half hidden by 
ferns. At first people were constantly passing, 
and we talked about indifferent things; then the 
music began for the next figure, and, with the 
exception of one couple lower down, everybody 
went inside. Mary, also, rose from her seat, but 
I begged her to sit the dance out, and, after a 
moment^s hesitation, she consented, and once 
* more took her place beside me. 

How it began I don’t know, but presently I 
found myself reproaching her for the coldness 
of her greeting to me, and she replying that she 
thought that she had done even more than her 
part in saving me a dance. And then I lost my 
head: “A dance!” I exclaimed, ‘^a dance and a 
few commonplaces after six month’s absence: 
when I had come all the way from New York to 
see you.” 

She pressed her lips closely together for an instant 
before she answered, then she said coldly, “And 
what did you expect?” 

I should have taken the warning, but I did not. 
All my wise resolutions flew to the winds; in an 
instant I was telling her the history of my life 
since I had last seen her. At first she listened 


56 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


coldly, but presently she began to grow restless 
and to twist her handkerchief in her hands. Sud- 
denly she stopped me. “Please do not say any 
more,^^ she said, “I can't listen to you." 

“But why?" I asked. 

“Because," she hesitated, “because it would 
not be right." She started to rise. I laid my 
hand on her arm. “Miss Andrews," I cried, “please, 
please don't go until I have finished. I know you 
do not care for me now, but to me you have become 
everything. Since that night I have done nothing 
without asking myself first whether it would meet 
your approval. Let me try, won't you, to see if 
I cannot make you like me in return. I do not 
ask for an answer now; I had no intention of speak- 
ing when I came here to-night; the words broke 
forth in spite of me; but " 

“Stop," she cried, and this time I could see that 
she was trembling, “I cannot listen to you." 

“But why?" I again asked. 

“Because," the color slowly rose to her face, but 
she forced it down, “because I am engaged to Mr. 
Ewing." She stopped for a moment, then continued 
“It has only been since yesterday. Nobody knows 
it yet. Our engagement will not be announced 
until after Lent. You will please not speak of it. 
And now take me to the dressing-room." 

I said nothing — there was nothing to say — the 
bottom had fallen from my world. I arose and 
offered her my arm, and we walked up-stairs together. 
At the door of the dressing-room she left me. “You 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


57 


need not wait.” she said. I bowed and turned 
away. The door of the men’s dressing-room was 
open. I walked inside. There were two decanters 
on the table. I picked one up indifferently and 
filled a glass and drank it. It was sherry. It 
seemed perfectly natural to do so. I filled another 
glass. Presently some men came in and one of 
them began quickly to change his collar. The 
music had stopped playing. Mechanically I felt 
my own collar and found that it was damp. I got 
the extra collar I had brought from my overcoat 
pocket and changed my own. Then I took another 
glass of sherry and walked down stairs. At the 
foot I found Miss Wallace. My next dance was 
with her. I joined her and presently the music 
began. I threw off the numb feeling which had 
come over me after Mary’s words, and tried to act 
as if nothing had happened, determined to leave 
immediately after the dance was finished. But 
here an unexpected obstacle presented itself. It 
seemed that the man who was to take her to supper 
had been compelled to leave early in the evening, 
and that she had decided, knowing that I had 
brought nobody, to allow me to take his place. 
Under other circumstances I would have been 
pleased, but now it seriously interfered with my 
plans. I felt that I wanted to go out and get 
drunk. Only in that way could I get a clear idea 
of my feelings. But there was no help for it, so 
I expressed my pleasure, and after the dance was 
over we started for the dining-room, which had 


58 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


been arranged up-stairs. On the way we were 
constantly stopped by girls and men who wished 
to tell Miss Wallace what a good time they were 
having, so nearly everybody had passed us before 
we reached the top of the stairs. We looked around 
for a table. At first there seemed to be none vacant, 
but presently we saw one in a corner at which only 
two people were sitting. By order of the fate 
which was controlling my destiny this night they 
proved to be Mary and Howland. 

“What luck,” cried Miss Wallace, and I had no 
recourse but to move over there with her. We 
took the vacant seats, and the two girls began a 
rapid conversation in which Howland joined, and 
they all laughed over some incident which had 
occurred the last time they had been together. 

At first, for the life of me, I could not talk ; though 
Mary behaved very well, and spoke to me several 
times as though nothing had happened. Presently 
the waiter filled our glasses with wine, and Howland 
thoughtfully told him to leave the bottle. I drained 
my glass immediately. Both Mary and Howland 
looked at me, and the latter spoke: “Well,” he 
said, “I thought you told me to-day at dinner 
that you had stopped drinking.” 

“I did,” I answered, “but circumstances have 
now caused me to change my mind; I am thinking 
of returning to New York to-morrow.” 

“To New York to-morrow,” cried both Howland 
and Miss Wallace. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


59 


“Yes/’ I answered, though, to tell the truth, the 
idea had only occurred to me as I had begun speak- 
ing. Mary gave me a quick glance, but I could 
not tell by it whether she was glad or sorry. “But 
what has that got to do with your drinking?” con- 
tinued Howland. 

“Years ago, when you were young and at college,” 
I answered, “you may have read that it was the 
custom among some of the ancients — the Persians, 
I believe — to debate all serious questions both 
sober and under the influence of wine. I approve of 
that custom . By it you are enabled to view a question 
from two distinct standpoints: then afterwards, 
when neither unduly depressed nor elated, you 
can compare the two and shape your actions 
accordingly.” Why I said this I don’t know. 
The wine, I suppose, was already affecting me, for, 
after six months total abstinence, it does not take 
much to go to a man’s head. A reckless fit now 
siezed me, and for the remainder of the supper 
I took the lead in the conversation so shaping it 
as to bring the subject of mercinary marriages to 
the fore and losing no opportunity of driving a 
shaft into Mary. 

When supper was over I joined the crowd in 
the men’s dressing-room and lit a cigar. A few 
minutes later I put on my overcoat and left the 
house. It was quite cold outside, for a norther 
had blown up during the evening. I turned up 
the collar of my coat and walked towards the beach. 


60 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


I really did not know what to do. To think con- 
nectedly was impossible. On reaching the end 
of the street I looked out over the water. There 
was a piece of the moon, with the clouds racing 
over it; but neither it nor the surf brought me any 
inspiration. I only stayed there a few minutes, 
then turned and walked homewards. As I passed 
Miss Wallace’s house again the brilliant lights 
made me feel lonely, and I paused a moment on 
the corner half decided to go in. Then I looked 
down the street and saw on another corner, a block 
away, the glimmer of different lights — lights showing 
dimly through red curtains. I remembered the 
house instantly, though I had not been in it for 
years. It was Cora’s house of prostitution. I won- 
dered if she still ran it. I walked towards it and 
looked at the outside for a moment. This was 
sufficiently reassuring, so I decided to go in, resolving 
to invent some excuse in case I had made a mistake. 
Opening the gate, I mounted the steps and rang 
the bell. There was a movement of feet inside, 
then a little trapdoor was opened, and through 
it a negro woman peered at me. Apparently her 
inspection was satisfactory, for almost immediately 
a chain was unfastened and the door thrown open. 
I entered and it was closed after me immediately. 
The hall was dimly lighted, but presently another 
door was opened and the place was flooded with 
light. In the doorway stood a large, middle-aged 
woman, dressed in a low-cut ball dress, whom I 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


61 


recognized as Cora. She did not seem to have 
aged a day. 

^^Come in, dear,” she said, '‘while I call some 
of the ladies.” 

I entered the room, while she stood at the foot 
of the stairs and called out rapidly the names of 
several women; then she came inside and sat down. 
“It is growing cold,” she said, “but we have a 
good fire; won’t you take off your coat?” 

I told her No, that I had only come in for a 
moment to look around as I had not been in the 
place for several years. 

“I saw that you were a stranger,” she remarked, 
and then added that she knew most of the Galveston 
boys. I answered something, then one after another 
four or five women came in. They were of the 
ordinary type, and dressed like the proprietor. 
One of them came and sat on my lap and asked 
me if I did not want to go up-stairs and have a 
good time. I told her No. It was all so well 
remembered; so brutally realistic; that I hated 
myself for coming — still, as a matter of form, I 
put my arm around the woman’s waist and ordered 
a bottle of wine. 

“It has been a very quiet Christmas Eve,” Said 
Miss Cora; “one of the quietest that I remember 
to have seen in Galveston,” and she rang the bell 
for the waiter to bring the wine. We talked along 
for a while. The wine came and was drunk, and 
then another bottle, and afterwards another. I 
did not pay much attention. I hardly saw the 


62 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


women around me. My thoughts were busy with 
my conversation with Mary. Should I give her 
up? take my defeat before I had really had a chance 
to try? or stay and fight out the battle to the end? 
The wine I could feel was going to my head and 
tingling through my body. It was so long since 
I had drunk that I could not stand as much as 
I once could. It seemed that it would be cowardly 
for me to go away now; that I would deserve my 
defeat if I gave up without a struggle; that it could 
not be possible that when a man strove for some- 
thing with all his might — something in which his 
whole heart was engaged — that he could fail. “I 
will fight it out to the end,” I said at last, mentally, 
and then I ordered another bottle of wine. The 
lights seemed dim to me, the gas jets were wabbling 
around the room, the women became blurs. It 
seemed to me that we were singing; that I was 
dancing; that more wine came. Then the lights 
grew dimmer, dimmer, dimmer; then they gradually 
rose again. T tried to shut them out, but they 
forced themselves in through my eyelids. I could 
feel them everywhere. Then I tried to open my 
eyes, but a great weight was pressing on them. 
But I struggled and struggled until at last I forced 
the lids apart and saw that a streak of sunshine 
was coming in through a hole in the window 
curtain. I turned around. I was in bed. It was 
Christmas morning. By my side was the body of 
a woman. I leaned over and looked at her. She 
was very fat and her loose hair was straggling over 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


63 


the pillow. It was of a champagne yellow. Her 
mouth was open and she was puffing for breath 
audibly. Her face was bloated from last night’s 
drinks, and the paint was rubbed off in streaks. 
Ugh! what disgust I felt. How horribly drunk 
I must have been to choose such a woman for a 
bed-fellow. I wondered if I had kissed her. I 
slipped out of bed and began putting on my clothes 
as quickly as I could and as silently; but she heard 
me and opened her sleepy, bloodshot eyes and looked 
at me stupidly. It was a moment or two before 
she regained her senses sufficiently to remember 
me. Then she said sleepily, '‘What, are you 
going, dear?” 

I answered that I was, and she rolled over and 
went to sleep again. I judged from this that I 
had probably paid her the night before. In a 
few minutes I was dressed. Down stairs another 
negro woman than the one of the night before let 
me out by the back way, and I found myself in 
the alley. There were no hacks in this part of 
town, so I had to walk. It was bitterly cold, and so, 
fortunately, there were but few people on the street. 
The freezing air braced me somewhat after a few 
minutes; but I was still feeling very rocky. At 
Henry’s I stopped to get a cocktail. I told the 
barkeeper to make it strong, which he did. Then 
I felt in my pocket for money to pay him. In 
the outside pockets of my overcoat there was 
nothing, so I had to unbutton it. I put my hand 
in the pocket of my dress-suit where I generally 


64 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


kept some change, but it was also empty. Then 
in the inside pocket of my vest, where, the evening 
before, I had placed a hundred dollars, having 
transferred it from my day vest. There was nothing 
in it. A little shiver passed through me, and I 
saw the truth in an instant; but I still hoped against 
hope, and went through all my pockets again; but 
they were as empty as before. I had blown in 
every cent I had with me in my last night’s drunk. 
One-fifth of my entire capital gone — for my railroad 
trip, and other expenses, had reduced my capital 
to about five hundred dollars. I had now left 
exactly four hundred dollars in New York exchange, 
with possibly a few loose dollars in some of my 
other clothes. It was a pretty hard knock. I 
took another cocktail, then told the barkeeper 
that I had no change with me, but that, if he wished, 
I would leave my watch with him as security. 
He said that it would be all right, however, so I 
thanked him and returned to my room. 

It was a little past nine, when I entered, and I 
found Howland already up and dressing. He 
looked at me critically, but had the decency not 
to say a word. So my first twenty-four hours in 
Galveston were passed. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


65 


IV. 

It is hardly necessary to go into the details of 
the next three or four weeks, for my debate, a la 
Persian, continued all that time. I saw Mary 
occasionally, but my actions that night at supper 
had angered her, and she treated me very coldly. 
I could not call on her, of course, and though we 
were meeting frequently, no chance to redeem my- 
self offered. 

About the only nice girl I went with was Miss 
Wallace. She was really very attractive, and I 
grew to like her more each day. She was almost 
as pretty as Mary, though in a different way. Fre- 
quently, in the mornings, when it was not too cold, 
we took long walks on the beach. 

But I was not in the least in love with her — Mary 
occupied all my thoughts — or most of them — 
except when I was playing chess, whist or poker. 

For my life soon drifted into a routine; one 
day the sample of all. In the morning I would 
get up about nine, swing my Indian clubs for a 
few minutes, take a tub-bath, shave and dress. 
About ten I would go to breakfast, taking a couple 
of cocktails on the way. After breakfast I would 
return to the room to smoke, and pretend to work. 
At twelve I would go out and loaf on Market street, 
between Tremont and Center, until one. At this 
hour most of the men were out and I would listen 
to the gossip of the day. We generally congregated 


66 


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in front of the restaurant, between 22nd and Tre- 
mont streets where Howland and I took our meals. 
Our rooms were just above. Returning again to 
my room, I would read or write until three, when 
I would go to dinner. I wrote a great deal, prin- 
cipally letters to Mary which I never sent, but 
burnt up immediately; though some few I preserved. 
Howland used to think I was writing on my novel. 
He was still paying attention to Mary, not knowing 
of her engagement, and through him I continued 
posted about her doings. 

After dinner I would go to the Chess and Whist 
club, and here my day really began. There were 
always enough men present to get up a game of 
chess or whist — generally there would be two or 
three tables going. We would play for small stakes, 
fifty cents or a dollar a corner, and I would generally 
win. At half past six or seven this crowd would 
go home, and the poker players would begin 
to drop in. At seven or half past the poker game 
would start. Unless I was going calling, or there 
was some dance I would always take a hand. Dances 
I never missed, as this was my only chance of seeing 
Mary. If I went calling or to the theatre, I would 
return to the club afterwards and take a hand 
in the poker game. The early evening game was 
always a dollar limit, but after twelve we would 
raise it to two-fifty, and sometimes to five dollars. 
There were two or three men who generally dropped 
in at this hour, and they would take the places 
of the early evening men whose wives would not 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


67 


let them stay out later than eleven. If there was 
no late evening game I would generally go to Cora’s 
and spend an hour or two with the women. 

From the time of my arrival at the club I would 
be drinking steadily, though I was very careful not 
to get drunk again; or better, it seemed impossible 
for me to take enough to affect my head. The first 
indication that I would have that I was full, would 
be, on getting up, to notice that my legs were 
desirous of wabbling, when I would instantly start 
for home. Some time during the course of the 
evening I would eat supper, having it sent in to 
me at the club; or if, at a party, I would take it 
there. 

For a man of a certain character this kind of 
life might be pleasant enough, but I lived it prin- 
cipally to keep myself from thinking, and never 
do I remember having been more unhappy. 
Sometimes, in spite of myself, I would get to think- 
ing, especially after a heavy loss at poker, or a 
more than ordinary cold meeting with Mary, and 
then my thoughts were such that even now it 
hurts me to recall them. 

That the end was coming rapidly, and that it 
would be serious, I could see easily enough, but I 
did not care much. My one hope lay in remaining 
in Galveston, and remain I would until the end. 
To go would mean certain defeat. A very serious 
point was my money. Two or three bad nights 
could clean me out completely. I was spending 
at the rate of fifteen or twenty dollars a day, and 


68 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


though I was winning more than I lost, my capital 
was steadily decreasing. 

Towards the end of January, for some reason 
which I could not understand, Mary showed a 
decided change in her actions towards me. At a 
German on the 25th she favored me, and we danced 
together for the first time since Miss Wallace’s 
party. 1 held myself well in hand, and was as 
careful as though she had been made of glass. The 
next day I received an invitation to a party which 
was to be given by her mother on the 31st. The 
intervening Sunday I called at her house rather 
late. Ewing was there, but he left almost as soon 
as I came in. He managed to avoid greeting me, 
which was, by the by, a custom of his whenever 
it was possible. There were several other men 
present, but they, also, left early, and at half past 
nine I was alone with Mary for the first time in a 
month. It is true that Ellen and some of her 
friends were in the adjoining room, but they were 
out of ear shot, so did not count. Never had Mary 
been so gracious. It was after eleven when I left. 
We talked about everything, except ourselves. 
Indeed, we both seemed equally desirous of avoiding 
personalities. I noticed that she was not as gay 
as usual, and that her face, when in repose, looked 
tired. My own health had been so good when I 
reached Galveston that as yet the life I had been 
leading had had no bad effect upon it. Mary 
noticed this and complimented me — sarcastically, 
I suppose — on my healthy appearance. This was 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


69 


the nearest she came to alluding to my half propo- 
sal to her. 

At her German on the 31st she let me put down 
my name on her program for two dances, and she 
also favored me once, as I did her. Ewing looked 
awfully black while we were dancing together. 
She was nicer to me than ever, and I exerted myself 
to be agreeable, just as if she were a new girl on 
whom I was desirous of making a favorable impres- 
sion. I think, towards the end, my line of conduct 
puzzled her. 

After supper, while in the dressing-room, I met 
her brother Walter. Lately, for her sake, I had 
been trying to cultivate him, though it was hard 
work, as we had hardly an interest in common, 
except, possibly, chess. I had been told that he 
played a very good game. This night we began 
to discuss the various openings, and it finally ended 
in my inviting him to dine with me the following 
Sunday and to play a game of chess afterwards. 

The next day, Friday, I awoke rather late, and 
did not breakfast until after twelve. In the after- 
noon I grew very restless, so instead of going to 
the club, I hired a horse from a livery stable I had 
discovered, where occasionally you could secure 
a decent animal, and took a long ride on the beach. 
At first I rode eastward, but later I turned and rode 
towards the Denver Resurvey. I had nearly reached 
the Orphan Asylum — the town I had left some 
miles behind — when I noticed a woman on horse- 
back coming towards me, and whom I recognized 


70 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


almost instantly as Mary. I had known that she 
rode often, but this was the first time that I had 
met her. When we reached each other, I wheeled 
my horse around and joined her. She had recog- 
nized me at the same time that I had recognized 
her, I suppose, for she showed no signs of surprise 
on seeing me. She expressed surprise in words, 
though, and then we fell a talking. Our horses 
dropped into a walk. I shall never forget that 
afternoon, though I can hardly remember a word 
we said. We seemed once more to be in perfect 
sympathy, and a feeling of peace that I had been 
a stranger to for many a day stole over me. It was 
growing dark when we reached her home. I helped 
her down, and my nerves thrilled, as they always 
did, when she touched me. She invited me in, 
but I had to refuse; I had an engagement with a 
Miss Morgan— a stupid girl, but who entertained 
a great deal, and whom I cultivated for that reason 
— for the theatre. 

After the theatre I dropped in at the club. There 
was the usual crowd. I did not feel like playing, 
but habit is strong, and before I knew it I was 
drawing to my hand. It was a disasterous night, 
and before the game broke up I was a hundred 
dollars behind. Saturday night was almost equally 
bad, and Sunday morning I awoke with less than 
a hundred dollars in the world. 

My engagement with Walter Andrews was for 
two o’clock, and at that hour he called for me at 
my rooms. I had invited Howland to join us. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


71 


but he had an egnagement elsewhere. I had given 
my waiter orders to have a nice dinner prepared, 
and he had carried them out^well. I had taken the 
precaution of buying the wine myself. I did not 
know whether Andrews drank, as I had never met 
him in any of the saloons ; but he finished his bottle 
all right. After the coffee we had some cognac, 
and then went to the club. There were quite a 
number of members present, but most of them were 
playing whist, or looking on, so we had no difficulty 
in securing a chess table. It was so much the 
custom of the club to bet, that I asked Andrews 
if he cared to play for anything, but he said no, so 
we played for fun. He played a hard, close game, 
much stronger than I expected. When we were 
about half through he had slightly the stronger 
position, and one of the onlookers — the Professor, 
we called him — who would bet on anything, offered 
to back Andrews. I accepted and we played for 
a dollar a game. What for one reason or another — 
that I was feeling disgusted with myself — the critical 
position my losses at poker had placed me in — I 
played badly, and towards the end of the game 
went to pieces completely. I lost the game and 
then another. I then offered the professor to 
increase the stakes to five dollars. He accepted, 
and then, much to my surprise, Andrews offered 
to bet also. I took both bets. Andrews action 
confirmed me in my opinion of him. While he 
thought the game was doubtful he had not cared 
to risk his money; but now that he felt convinced 


72 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


that he could beat me, he was willing to bet. I 
now played with more care, and after a long game, 
drove a pawn to the king’s row and won, I ordered 
the drinks, and leaned back in my chair, thinking 
that I had had enough chess for one day.' It was a 
little after five and growing dark. A cold rain 
had blown up, probably the beginning of a norther. 
I had thought of going calling, but the rain caused 
me to change my mind, and I proposed a game 
of whist. But Andrews was dissatisfied over the 
last game and wanted another. I agreed, though 
unwillingly, and we started. He was growing 
excited, however, and before a dozen moves had 
been made, he lost a piece through a bad combina- 
tion, giving me the game after a few more moves. 
We had another drink, and again I proposed stopping. 
He still insisted on playing, however, and we began 
again. The professor did not bet this time. He 
had sized up how things were going, and was too 
old a sport not to know when he had enough. This 
time Andrews played much better, but towards 
the end of the game he again made a bad play which 
cost him the game. I now insisted on stopping, 
not, I admit, through any regard for him, but 
because he was Mary’s brother. The professor 
had ordered another sound of drinks — we were all 
taking long toddies — and Andrews gulped his down 
angrily. “You want to stop because you are ahead,” 
he said, “but I don’t want to stop. You won the 
last game by accident. If you are not afraid I 
will play you for fifty dollars.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


73 


I saw that I had made an enemy of him, if he 
had not been one already, and that I might as well 
be hung for an ox as a sheep; so without more 
words I began setting up the men.. He had a big 
roll of money with him; he paid me the fifteen 
dollars he had lost, and handed a fifty dollar bill 
to the professor to act as stake holder. I had 
one fifty dollar bill left, and this I also handed to 
the professor. I hated to put it up, as I could 
not afford to lose. Fortunately all my bills had 
been paid to the end of the month. 

That morning I had, on counting my money, 
made up my mind to turn over a new leaf. By 
stopping all kinds of dissipation I could hold out 
for three months longer, and by that time my fate 
would be decided. Now, if I lost, I would have 
to pawn my watch. I was heartily sick of the life 
I had been leading, and now that Mary was friends 
with me again, was ready to lead the life of an 
anchorite. Still, just now there was no help, so I 
began playing as well as I knew how. The game 
had hardly begun before I noticed that Andrews 
was getting drunk. His eyes were shining, and 
two red spots had appeared on his sallow cheek- 
bones. I turned to the professor, Don’t you think” 
I said, ^That we had better call this game off?” 

He understood my meaning immediately, and 
was about to speak, when Andrews interrupted 
fiercely '‘God damn it,” he cried, "you either play 
this game out or I will take the stakes.” 

The professor shrugged his shoulders, "Finish 


74 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


the game/’ he said. I was angry enough to fight, 
but controlled myself and continued playing. 
Andrews’ outburst seemed to have sobered him 
for the moment, and he begun playing a very strong 
game; but he was no match for me and I won. I 
now left the table. The mischief was done, and 
at least I was about seventy- five dollars better off 
than when I started, or, to be exact, seventy-three. 
In the rear room a poker game was just starting, 
and I decided to play off the odd twenty-three 
dollars. Win or lose it should be the last game 
of poker that I would play until Mary was married. 

There were three other men at the table when I 
sat down. The janitor was counting out the chips. 
We always made him cashier. He knew the financial 
standing of every man in town better than half 
the bankers. We all started out with ten dollars. 
The first hand had not been dealt before Andrews 
and the professor came in. They both took seats 
at the table and asked for cards. The other players 
looked at Andrews with surprise — the professor 
was one of the habitues — but said nothing and the 
game began. Somebody, I forget who now, took 
the seventh seat. From the start both Andrews 
and I began winning. The game we played was 
perpetual Jacks, with a bit ante and a dollar 
limit. Everybody had to put up a bit, and it 
took jacks or better to open. After an hour I 
was thirty dollars ahead. I then ordered supper, 
letting a couple of rounds of deals pass me to have 
time to eat properly. When I began again my 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


75 


luck had changed, and for over an hour I hardly got a 
hand that was worth coming in on. But I knew 
enough of poker to know when to stay out, and 
though I did not win, I hardly lost anything. An- 
drews also began to lose, and he lost very rapidly. 
By the way he bet you could see that he knew 
nothing about poker. He was still drinking, though 
not very much, and seemed to be growing more 
sober. An outsider would not have known that 
he was in the least drunk. During the course of 
the next hour all his winnings and the chips he 
had started with originally, disappeared, and he 
had to buy a fresh supply. Once, to break the 
monotony, I bluffed, and won a good pot; it happened 
to be against Andrews. It made him very angry, 
and thereafter, every time 1 came in he would 
play against me. At eleven o^clock three of the 
original players dropped out, and two others 
came in. We raised the limit to two-fifty. There 
were now playing the Professor, Andrews, myself, 
two cotton buyers — one of whom was an Englishman 
— and a veteran poker player whom, and by right, 
we called the Colonel. They were all experts, 
except the Englishman and Andrews, who, to all 
of them except myself, was still an unknown quan- 
tity, though they were rapidly beginning to size 
him up. 

We had hardly started at the two-fifty limit 
before the cards began to run my way, and for the 
next hour I have never had such luck. I was drinking 
only sherry and egg — a drink on which I could last 


76 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


all night. After twelve my luck fell off a little, 
though I still won more than I lost. Andrews 
was getting deeper and deeper in the hole, and his 
hand was constantly going into his pocket and 
bringing out more money. I had given up even 
guessing how much he was losing, though I knew 
that it was getting to be a considerable sum of 
money. 

I now wanted to draw out, but there is such a 
strong prejudice against a winner jumping the game, 
that I continued. At one o’clock the Colonel 
withdrew — that was his regular hour. He was a 
little ahead, though not much; I was the only large 
winner. This left us five in the game. A Jew, 
however, who had been looking on, and one of 
the leading city officials, both among the hardest 
poker players in town, came in, and our number 
was again raised to seven. The limit went up 
to five dollars. By half past one the Englishman 
was cleaned out, and he left. Andrews was still 
losing. I was about two hundred and fifty dollars 
ahead. The others, except the Professor, who 
had begun winning on the five dollar game, were 
about even or a trifle losers. I now announced 
that I was going to stop at two o’clock. Two 
o’clock came, but I did not stop; we were in the 
middle of an exciting Jack. Half past two, and 
I was four hundred dollars ahead; with my winnings 
at chess, and w^hat I had in my pocket on entering 
the club that afternoon, about five hundred and 
fifty dollars— more money than I had had on coming 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


77 


to Galveston. My spirits rose. This was my last 
game. I had had a valuable lesson and fortunately 
had come out even in the end. Mary was changing 
towards me, and I was sure that now that I was 
obtaining opportunities to talk to her that I could 
win against Ewing. The cards were dealt. I 
skinned my hand carelessly, and saw that I had 
four little hearts and a spade. I passed — I was 
sitting next to the dealer — and the next man, but 
the third opened it. Andrews came in and the 
Professor, and then the Jew, who was also the 
dealer. I was playing in such luck, and my position 
justif3dng it, I came in also. To my surprise, the 
city official, who had passed before, came in and 
raised the pot five dollars. The opener saw it 
and so did Andrews, the Professor dropped out, 
but the Jew and I came in. This made over sixty 
dollars in the pot, as we had all, before the opening, 
antied twice around, fifty cents each time. 

We all now called for cards. I asked for one, 
and the city official for one, the opener and Andrews 
three each, and the Jew for one. I tipped up the 
edge of my card and saw that I had made my 
flush. The opener bet a seed. Andrews hesitated, 
I saw that his hands were trembling, then he put 
up his seed — fifty cents— and raised the bet five 
dollars. The Jew shuffled his cards for a moment, 
then threw them on the table. He had evidently 
not filled his hand. A call was all I wanted, so 
I merely put up my five-fifty. You could never 
tell what the city official had until he laid down 


78 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


his hand, though I was hardly surprised when he 
raised. The opener now dropped out, but Andrews 
raised back. I gave a last look at my hand before 
throwing it down, as I was convinced that one, if 
not both of them had me beaten. I shifted the 
cards slowly sideways, just exposing the numbers 
on the corners, and then — it needed all my self- 
control to keep from making an exclamation, for 
I had filled an interior straight to my flush, and 
now had the two combined. For the first time 
in a game of poker I held a straight flush. There 
they were, all hearts, five — six — seven — eight — nine. 
I had to look at the full face of each card before 
I would trust my eyes. Then I raised Andrews. 
I would not have done so, had I not feared that 
the city official was only bluffing, and that I would 
only get a show-down. But he was not bluffing. 
He saw the raise and was about to raise again, 
when Andrews, who had lost all self-control, re- 
raised him before he had put his money down. 
The city official quietly threw his hand down, 
withdrew his money, and remarked to Andrews, 
in a painfully clear voice, ‘‘Well, you are an ass.^’ 

I, however, accepted Andrews’ raise, and raised 
him back again. All his money was now on the 
table, but he went into his pocket and drew out 
a twenty dollar bill. “I raise you,” he said. 

I was angry with him over the chess game, and 
his conduct while we had been playing poker had 
not tended to make me less so; but I was so certain 
that I had him beaten, and he was so surely Mary’s 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


79 


brother, that I thought that I would make a last 
effort to be friends. “Don’t raise me,” I said, “I 
am certain that I have you beaten: call.” 

He looked at me and all the meanness in his 
nature showed in his eyes as he answered, “Will 
you kindly do me the favor to mind your own 
business?” 

My last spark of pity for him died out. I knew 
that I had him beaten, and I determined to make 
him pay for his lesson as dearly as possible. He 
had drawn three cards, and it was almost a certainty 
that he could not have better than fours at the 
highest. I moved my cards iri my hand as if I 
were doubtful whether to call or not, then I raised 
him. He raised again. I raised back. Again 
he went into his pockets, but this time no money 
came out. He looked anxiously around the table, 
then turned to the opener, a cotton-buyer. “Let 
me have five hundred dollars,” he said. 

The man was visibly embarrassed. He kept 
his account with the bank of which Andrews’ 
father was president, as I learned afterwards. 
Finally he said, “I would let you have the money 
with pleasure, Mr. Andrews, but I have not that 
much with me.” 

I laughed lightly, and filliped the edges of my 
cards with my finger. The action made Andrews 
almost wild. He turaed to the cotton man again. 

■ “How much have you?” he demanded. 

The other shifted in his seat. “I will give you 
what I have,” he said, finally, “but I think that 


80 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


you had better not bet. Mr. Woodhouse has told 
you that he has you beaten and has advised you 
to call. You had better take his advice.’^ One 
or two of the other men now advised him the same 
way, but he had passed the point where a man 
listens to reason. Turning in his seat he looked 
the cotton man, who was sitting next to him, full 
in the face. “Do I understand you to say that 
you refuse?’^ he asked. 

The latter did not reply immediately, but opened 
his vest and took out a small package of bills from 
the inside pocket. They were all of large denomina- 
tions. He counted them and there was three 
hundred and twenty dollars. He handed them 
over to Andrews. “You have put the matter in 
such a way that I cannot refuse,” he said, gravely, 
“so I give you what I have. You will please write 
me out a check, Lee”; and he turned to the janitor, 
“Bring me a check-book.” 

The check-book was brought, the amount filled 
in, and Andrews signed. The cotton man folded 
the check and put it in his pocket-book. Then he 
got up from the table, and put on his overcoat. 
“I still advise you not to bet, Mr. Andrews,” he 
said, then he left the room. 

Andrews fumbled the money nervously. You 
could see that he was wildly excited. The pos- 
sibility flashed on me that he might, by some fool 
combination have held up an ace and a king of the 
same color, as some fools do, and caught a royal 
straight flush. As the hand had been played this 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


81 


was almost an impossibility — with a good player 
an impossibility — but he was capable of it. But 
still I was going to see it through; he should have 
to call me if I put up every cent. 

The betting began again with a sight and a 
raise each time — ten dollars — and so continued 
until we each had put up another hundred dollars. 
The excitement around the table was intense. 
Nobody had seen my hand as I had kept my cards 
closely pressed together since the time I had first 
examined them carefully, and I do not think that 
anybody had seen Andrews’. 

After the first hundred dollars were up, there 
was a pause. I had decided not to say another 
word. If any proposition came it would have 
to come from Andrews. And now he made one. 
‘T will make you one more bet,” he said, in a voice 
which he tried to make calm, but which vibrated 
with emotion, ^‘for the rest of the money I have 
here.” 

“I take you,” I said, “only you must call me; or, 
if you wish, we will both lay down our hands at 
the same time.” 

“Very well,” he said, “count out your money;” 
and he shoved forward on the table that which 
remained in front of him. 

As I had won, I had placed the large bills in my 
pocket; now I took out four fifty dollar bills, which, 
with what I had still on the table, was more 
than enough to cover his bet. There was a 
moment of silence, then we both laid down our 


82 


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hands. Everybody leaned forward, and there 
was an almost universal exclamation of “Hell!’^ 

The Professor was the first to speak. ‘‘Four 
aces against a straight flush,” he said, slowly, “who 
ever saw it.” 

Andrews leaned forward as if to take the money ; 
“By God! I’ve beaten you at last,” he said. 

“Beat! you damn fool, you mean you’re beaten,” 
cried the Professor, “Don’t you see that he has a 
straight flush?” 

“A straight flush?” repeated Andrews, stupidly, 
“a straight flush; we did not say anything about 
playing straight flushes. Four aces beat every- 
thing, and I have won the money.” 

The Jew laughed. “You ain’t got no business 
to play poker,” he said “they oughtn’t t’have let 
you into the game.” 

To end the argument I now began to gather in 
the stakes. At this Andrews lost his head com- 
pletely. He reached out and made a grab at my 
hand, crying at the same time, “Damn you, you 
shan’t have my money.” 

^ The Professor siezed him. “Stop, you fool,” he 
cried. “Do you want to disgrace yourself? Wood- 
house has won the money fairly — more than fairly, 
for he warned you not to bet. If you ever want 
to play poker with gentlemen again, you must 
learn to take your losses quietly. You had better 
get out now and go to bed.” 

This attack seemed to daze Andrews. He looked 
around the table for sympathy, but every man 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


83 


was against him. He drew back his hand and 
sank into his seat. I have never seen a more 
wretched, crushed-looking creature. I was affected 
in spite of myself. I gathered up the chips and 
separated them into colors, and the bills into piles. 
What with the money we had both put in, there 
was about eight hundred dollars on the table. 
When I had finished counting, I took the last three 
dundred and twenty dollars we had bet, and separat- 
ed it from the rest. 

“Mr. Andrews,” I said, “I don’t think that you 
will find a single man at this table who will not tell 
you that I have a perfect right to this money, and 
you can probably afford to lose better than anyone 
here present; but as you lost it through your ignor- 
ance of the game, I will give it back to you,” and 
I held the money out towards him. 

But he shoved my hand back and sprang to 
his feet; “No, I’ll be damned if I take it,” he cried, 
“Either you give me back every cent I’ve lost 
to-night, or I will have you arrested to-morrow 
for gambling. There is a law in this town against 
gambling, and this is nothing but a damned gambling 
club.” 

If there had been a shadow of sympathy for him 
in the breast of anyone present, it was gone now. 
In an instant every man was on his feet, and for 
a moment it looked as if it would go hard with 
him; but the city official quietly took him by the 
arm, gave him his overcoat, and led him to the 
door, and my last game of poker was over. 


84 


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V. 

The next morning I awoke late. About half 
past eleven, as I was finishing shaving, Howland 
came into my room. He looked at me critically, 
until I laid down my razor, then he said, with his 
usual sarcastic inflection, “Well, you have done 
for yourself now.” 

“Yes,” I answered, “how so?” 

“You need not pretend ignorance, it’s all over 
town.” 

“How sad,” I replied. 

“It’s nothing to joke about, n :y boy,” he continued 
more gravely, everybody is talking about your 
poker game last night.” 

“What did you hear?” I demanded, as I finished 
drying my face. 

He looked me all over before he continued, “You 
take it pretty coolly,” he said, finally, “but I tell 
you again it is no joke. You are accused of getting 
Walter Andrews drunk and doing him out of six 
hundred dollars.” 

I turned to him now, as I fastened my collar, 
and asked, “Who told you that?” 

“Graham,” he said, and then I knew that he 
was moved, for he never called me by my first 
name unless he was very serious, “there is an ugly 
charge being made against you. I only heard 
it a few minutes ago, and I started home immediately 
to tell you about it. I do not believe it— I give 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


85 


you my word that I did not believe it from the first, 
but what I have told you every man is repeating, 
and some are threatening to get up a crowd to 
run you out of town/^ 

I looked at him now; he was in dead earnest. 
“Go on,” I said. 

“We were to have an oyster roast to-day, as 
you know, and were to meet at the Andrews’. I 
got there a little late and found that the party 
was off. Ewing, McManus, and several of the 
other men were just leaving. Ewing told me the 
story, which he said he had received from Mr. 
Andrews. About four o’clock this morning Walter 
had come home. He had opened the door with 
his latch key, but in trying to go up-stairs, had 
fallen and knocked over the night lamp, nearly 
setting fire to the house. Mr. Andrews heard the 
noise, and came down stairs in time to put out 
the fire and rescue Walter. The whole house, of 
course, was immediately aroused and Walter had 
to explain. He had gone down town at about 
half past one, he said, and had gone to the bank, 
as his father had requested him, and had opened 
the private safe and taken out six hundred dollars 
to give to his mother to pay some bills the next 
morning, his father having forgotten to bring the 
money home the night before. He had then gone 
to your room, having an engagement with you 
to play chess, and you had dined together. At 
dinner you had forced him to drink, and after 
dinner had given him some cordial which had gone 


86 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


to his head immediately. After that he did not 
remember anything until about three o^clock in 
the morning, when he found that he had been playing 
poker; that all his money was on the table, and that 
you were claiming that you had won it from him 
on the last hand. He protested, but you refused 
to give him any satisfaction, and that then he left 
you and came home. 

“After they had got him to bed, he grew very 
sick, and they had to send for a doctor. Mr. An- 
drews thinks that you must have given him some 
drug. Just before I reached the house he had 
gone down town to have you arrested. I am 
surprised that nobody has been here yet.’’ 

I listened to this tissue of lies without saying 
a word. When Howand finished I laughed. “The 
dirty little puppy,” I said, “nearly every word 
of his story is false. T had nothing to do with 
his coming into the poker game. I wanted him 
to go home long before. But I would like you 
to hear exactly what happened from somebody 
else. The Professor was present from the beginning ; 
ask him, or old Col. Wilson, or the Chief of Police; 
he was in the game when it ended. I think that 
Mr. Andrews will change his mind about having 
me arrested when he hears the whole story. Then 
there’s Bogart, the cotton -buyer, Walter gave him 
a check for over three hundred dollars. Every- 
body told him to quit. Do me the favor to see 
some of these men, and then contradict the whole 
story.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


87 


Howland grabbed me by the hand; ‘‘Graham, 
old boy,” he said, “I’m awfully glad. I knew^ 
that the story could not be true; but I could not 
help fearing that you might be in some way to 
blame. But you had better tell me exactly how 
it happened, so that I can contradict it immediately.” 

So I told Howland the history of the day before. 
When I had finished he shook my hand again. 
“God, I’m glad,” he said, “but what an unmitigated 
son of a bitch Walter is — no, I won’t say that, 
though outside of Mary and her mother, it’s true 
of the whole family. I’ve always disliked Walter, 
and I’ve never had much use for Ellen. She has 
become so overbearing since her father made his 
money that I never speak to her when I can avoid 
it. Now I’ll leave you and see the Chief, and find 
out if they are going to do anything. You had 
better not go out for a while.” 

He left me, and I finished dressing. I had not 
the slightest idea of taking his advice about not 
going out, as, first, I had had no breakfast, 
and, second, I rather hoped that I would meet 
Ewing. When I reached the street, however, 
there was nobody in front of the restaurant that 
I knew, so I went in and ordered some eggs and 
coffee for breakfast. 

When I came out, however, I walked directly 
into a group of men. Among them was Ewing. 

I had made no plan, but the instant I saw him 
I walked up to him, and said, “I understand, 
Mr. Ewing, that you have been circulating a story 


88 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


about me this morning; I wish to tell you that it 
is absolutely false, and that I will hold you personally 
responsible if you repeat it again.” 

My appearance had taken him so completely 
by surprise that I was able to finish my speech 
without interruption; but he recovered himself 
as I spoke the last words, and, turning to the man 
next to him, McManus, said, “I wonder that black- 
leg son of a — ” he did not finish for I struck him 
squarely on the mouth with my open hand. 

He staggered back a few steps, and somebody 
grabbed my arm. But he recovered himself almost 
instantly, and made a rush at me. I shook myself 
loose from the man who was holding me and sprang 
to one side. Ewing passed in front of me. He 
turned quickly, but as he did so, I step{)ed forward 
and caught him on the side of his jaw with a long 
swing of my left arm. The blow was a beautiful 
one. He half rose from his feet, and shot back- 
wards across the sidewalk, and landed in the gutter. 
He did not rise, and McManus ran to him and raised 
him up. But he was sound asleep, and slipped 
back again. Then I turned to the others. But 
there was no more fight in the crowd, even if they 
had been inclined that way in the beginning. I 
looked in each man’s face; then I said, “Gentlemen, 
the story that Mr. Ewing has probably told you 
is absoultely false, as you will hear later to-day; 
but if any of you choose to believe it, and wish to 
drop my acquaintance, you can do so now, and 
you will find that I will never trouble you again.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


89 


I do not believe that, in their hearts, any of them 
were sorry that Ewing hud got the worst of it, for 
now, without exception, they all hastened to say 
that they had not believed Ewing’s story from the 
beginning, or that they were sure that there had 
been some mistake. A crowd was now beginning 
to form, so I thought it well to leave. I turned, 
to one of the men, the leader of our Germans, with 
whom I had always been on friendly terms, and 
said, “I am now going to my rooms, if anybody 
wishes to see me about this, I will be there for the 
next two hours. I will be obliged if you will let 
those interested know.” 

He said he would, and I went up stairs. I stayed 
in until four o’clock, but nobody came to disturb 
me. I then decided to take a ride. I called up 
the livery stable by telephone to send around the 
horse I generally rode, and then put on my riding 
togs. When I went down stairs I found a darky 
already waiting for me with the horse. Nobody 
I knew was on the street. I mounted and rode 
toward the beach. My route down Tremont street 
led me past Mary’s house, but all the blinds were 
closed and I saw nobody. I had the beach almost 
to myself. There was a high surf, blown up by 
the wind of the night before, but the wind itself 
had died down now, and the air was crisp, cool and 
bracing. I rode a long distance to the westward. 

It was just on the verge of twilight when I turned 
down Tremont street again on my way home. As 
I neared Mary’s house the gate opened and she came 


90 


AN IMAGINARY STORy 


out. I was so close to the sidewalk that only a few feet 
separated us. When she saw me her face flushed, 
until from her collar to her forehead she was the 
color of a rose, but though she looked at me straight 
in the eyes, she made no sign of recognition. It 
was a cut square and direct, ajid our acquaintance 
was at an end. 

Since Howland^s story — since the night before 
— I had been fearing it; but now that it had really 
come it hurt me as much as though it had been 
unexpected. I rode home slowly to the livery 
stable, and left my horse there, and then walked 
to my room. Howland was not in, and I was 
glad of it. When I turned on the lights, however, 
I saw that he had left a note for me saying that I 
need not worry about being arrested as he was 
certain that no charge against me would be made. 
The note was kindly meant, though unnecessary, 
as from the beginning the fear of arrest had not 
bothered me at all : it was not the arrest nor scandal 
that I cared about, but Mary. And now she had 
pronounced judgment. I changed my clothes 
and went out to dinner. 

Over my coffee and cigar I tried to put in shape 
the thoughts which had been passing through my 
mind all day. My battle was lost, principally 
through my own foolishness, and now what happened 
did not make any difference. I prolonged my 
dinner, sipping pusse caf4s and smoking, until 
nearly ten o^clock. Men I knew were passing in 
and out constantly, and most of them nodded 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


91 


to me and I to them in return, but they left no 
mark on my consciousness. Over and over again 
I repeated to myself, ‘‘Nothing now makes any 
difference.” 

There was still, however, one more thing to try. 
Mary had only heard one side of the story. I 
would write to her and explain. I returned to 
my room and wrote, rapidly, a long letter. I 
stopped once to telephone for a hack. When I 
finished it was nearly eleven o’clock. I gave the 
letter to the hackman, with instructions to stop 
at the side gate, and to find out from some of the 
servants if Miss Andrews was up, before delivering 
it. If she was not, to return the letter to me, if 
she was, to wait for an answer. And above all 
to be quick. 

He was even quicker than I hoped. Before 
half an hour was over he had returned. And the 
letter was in Mary’s handwriting. I paid him, 
and ran up to my room, for I had been waiting for 
him at the foot of the stairs. I turned on the 
electric light and tore open the envelop, and — and — 
my own letter was inside, unopened. 

I went to Henry’s and -sat down at one of the 
corner tables. My last hope was gone. I had 
failed. “Nothing now makes any difference.” I 
looked idly around the room. A flaring poster 
caught my eye. It advertised the coming Mardi- 
Gras at New Orleans. I had not been to a Mardi- 
Gras in years. Why not go there, have a good 
time with my money while it lasted, and then 


92 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


blow out my brains. To continue the life I had 
been leading until the day that Mary first entered 
into it I would not do. I had tried every form of 
vice and was tired of them all. To work along 
for myself alone was not worth the trouble. I 
might make a success in literature, but what was 
success, anyhow — a little praise, possibly, from 
people for whom I did not give a damn. 

I arose from my seat, still undecided, and walked 
out into the street. The thought of Mardi-Gras 
gave a direction to my steps, and I turned towards 
the railroad station. It would do no harm to find 
out something about the trains. There would be 
one, I found, at three in the morning, which would 
connect at Houston with the through train for 
New Orleans. It was now about midnight. I 
returned to the room. Howland had not yet 
come in. I was surprised at first, until I remembered 
that there was to be a meeting of a lodge he belonged 
to that night, with a banquet afterwards. I had 
been invited to the latter, but had not cared to 
accept. 

I picked up a book and tried to read, but could 
not; the backbone of my life was broken. I threw 
the book down and going to my bedroom mechan- 
ically began packing. I chose my smallest trunk, 
putting in it only a change of clothes, my dress-suit, 
and some shirts and underclothes. My books, 
papers, and everything else I decided to leave 
behind in charge of Howland, except such as had 
some connection with Mary. These I put in my 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


93 


trunk to take with me. They did not make a very 
large bundle. If I kicked the bucket I could destroy 
them first. For the balance of my stuff I did not 
care — he could become my residuary legatee, and 
if he could get any money for my MMS he was 
welcome to it, for it w^ould be more than I had 
been able to do. 

After I had finished packing, I sat down to my 
typewriter and wrote Howland a note to the effect 
that, as there was nothing going to be done in the 
poker matter, and that my stay in town would 
probably be unpleasant for some time to come, 
I had decided to take a trip to New Orleans, and 
that I wished him to take charge of my things 
until my return, or, failing my return, until I gave 
him directions where to send them. I also told 
him to keep my room for the next three months, 
and to pay any outstanding bills that I might 
have^ and I left sufficient money to cover these 
commissions. 

It was now past two o’clock, so I telephoned 
for a hack, and mixed myself a long toddy to while 
away the time. In about fifteen minutes the hack 
came. I carried my trunk and hand-satchel down 
myself and gave them to the driver. 

There was still time to spare when we reached 
the station, so I made myself as comfortable as 
I could in the day car, for there was no sleeper 
on the train. We started, at last, and I suppose 
I thought a great deal, though I have no recollection 
now of what I thought about, still, it must have 


94 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


been of Mary. At Houston, where we changed 
cars, I had to wait nearly an hour for the New 
Orleans train. I wired ahead for a berth, and 
secured the drawing-room. As soon as the train 
came in I had the berth made up and went to sleep, 
not waking up until late in the afternoon when 
we were nearing New Orleans. By the time I 
was dressed the train was in Algiears. I crossed 
the ferry and went direct to the St. Charles hotel. 
The Mardi-Gras rush had not yet begun, so I had 
no difficulty in securing a room. I went to the 
barber shop and got shaved and then dined. After 
dinner I strolled out to see the town. There were 
many music halls and I drifted from one to another. 
In one of them — it was now about twelve — I noticed 
a man looking at me fixedly. I returned his gaze, 
and gradually his face grew familiar. He got up 
presently, and walked over to the table where I 
was sitting, and held out his hand. “Don’t you 
remember me, Graham?” he said. 

Instantly I remembered him, though we had 
not seen each other for years. He was a cousin 
of mine — the only one I possessed — and about as 
alone in the world as I was. He was many years 
my senior, and at one time had been a sort of ward 
of my father’s; but when he grew up he had been 
so wild that my father had broken with him entirely. 
We, however, had always been friends, though 
I was still too young when he left our house to 
have ever been much of a companion of his — the 
ten years between ten and twenty being an im- 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


95 


passable gulf. We talked together for about an 
hour, then left the music hall, and he took me to 
half the sporting places in town, and at one of them 
he left me, after we had made an engagement for 
the next day at a billiard hall where he generally 
spent the early afternoon. He wrote down the 
address for me, and after breakfast the next morning 
I went there. It was quite near Canal street. We 
played two or three games of billards, which he 
won, as he came very near being in the professional 
class. The last game he gave me odds. From 
the billiard hall we went to the race track. There 
were winter races being held in New Orleans this 
year, as, indeed, I think there are every year. 
We drove out in an open carriage. On the way 
he told me his business, if business it could be 
called — he gambled and followed the races for 
a living. He smoked incessantly, but never drank. 
He had as fine a mathematical mind as any man 
I have ever met. At all games of cards he was an 
expert. He was by birth a gentleman, and amid 
the crowd of gamblers and race-horse men with 
whom he associated, his word was never doubted. 
He knew the pedigrees of all the race horses and 
their best times, and whether they were good mud 
horses or not. Every evening, before dinner, he 
would take a seat in one of the pool rooms where 
the next day’s entries were posted, and would 
pick out the probable winners; then, before the 
race started, he would see the owner to find out 
whether he intended to run his horse to win or 


96 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


not. This is all an owner^s opinion is good for, 
for they are nearly always prejudiced in favor 
of their own horses. Often, after I had been 
recognized as one of the inside ring, I would hear 
an owner ask my cousin before the race whether 
he thought that his horse had any show in the 
company that he was in or not. 

This first day I did not bet, but amused myself by 
looking on. The grand stand was well filled, and 
I found the people more interesting than the races, 
for, as far as the horses were concerned, I did not 
know one from another. I was sitting at the 
extreme edge of the grand stand, just over the 
betting ring. My cousin had left me soon after 
I entered. Two or three races had been run before 
I noticed a very pretty-looking girl on the seat just be- 
hind me. Some exclamation that she made attracted 
my attention. When she saw me looking at her 
she said, ‘‘Won’t you please ask your friend who 
is going to win the next race?” 

“Certainly,” I answered, and then I changed 
my seat to one beside her and we fell a talking. 
When my cousin came he joined us, and I asked 
him the question. He looked the girl over before 
answering, but did not seem to know her, then he 
said that he was not betting on the race, but thought 
that some horse, I forget the name now, had a good 
chance to win. He advised her not to bet, however, 
as the odds on the horse he liked were too high. 
She did not take his advice, however, but backed 
another horse that somebody had told her the 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


97 


night before was a sure thing. The race came 
off, and I watched it with interest. Neither horse, 
I remember, won, but some rank outsider. My 
cousin left us again, and I did not see him any more 
until the races were over. I spent the rest of the 
time talking with my new acquaintance. She 
was quite bright, and had evidently been well 
educated. She was now, she told me, a variety 
actress, and was playing at one of the music halls. 
I left her when my cousin joined me after the races, 
having made an engagement to meet her after 
the theatre that night. 

On our way home my cousin told me never to 
ask his opinion of a race in public, as if others 
heard him it might spoil his betting, or the betting 
of his friends. The bookmakers kept a close watch 
on him, as his crowd had been hitting them heavily 
this meeting. I appreciated his reasons and prom- 
ised obedience. He also suggested that, as there 
was a spare room in the house where he was lodging 
that I should take it. I decided to do so, and moved 
from the hotel before dinner. It was a free and 
easy place and suited me exactly. You could 
do anything you wanted, except make a noise. 
In one of the rooms a poker game was run every 
night. 

After dinner that evening I went to the theatre, 
and then to the variety show. I took one of the 
boxes and waited. Almost immediately my race 
track friend joined me. Her act was over, she 
said, and she had been waiting for me. I bought 


98 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


permission for her to go out from the manager, 
as according to her contract she could not go out 
before three, and I took her to supper. It cost 
me, with the wine, about twenty-five dollars, but 
afterwards she went home with me. 

I will not go into details with my life in New 
Orleans — it was merely a repetition of my Galveston 
life, with the exception that I resolutely refrained 
from thinking, and was now absolutely reckless. 
My race-track girl’s name was Ethel — at least she 
said it was — and I went with her everywhere. She 
jumped the theatre, and came to my room to live. 
I do not think that I was really sober a single 
minute, for I always took enough drinks before 
breakfast to give me a good start for all day, though 
I never got drunk either. When I was not with 
Ethel, I was with my cousin. In the morning 
we would play billiards, and in the afternoon would 
attend the races, either at the track or at the pool 
rooms. If we went to the track Ethel would go 
out with us. I spent a great deal, but my money, 
in lieu of diminishing, increased. This was due 
to my cousin. I knew enough to know that my 
judgment of horses was worthless, especially when 
run in the way they were in New Orleans, so 
implicitly followed his advice. Nearly every day 
we won or broke even, very rarely we lost. Poker 
I did not play, as for some reason I kept the reso- 
lution to stop which I had made in Galveston. 
Mardi-Gras came and went. I saw the processions 
and attended most of the balls — that is to say 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


99 


of the fast ones. Sometimes I played faro, and 
one night I made a big winning. 

It was four days after Mardi-Gras; I was out 
at the race track with Ethel. The last race of 
the day was called. I had won every race so far 
and was loaded with money. The horses went 
to the post. My cousin and I were backing a long 
shot straight and place as against the favorite. 
We were standing by the fence in front of the judges* 
stand, and the owner of the favorite was with us. 
He was a young man and was visibly excited. The 
race was for a mile. The horses started from in 
front of us. The favorite got off well and took 
the lead and kept it to the entrance of the stretch. 
Then our horse made a spurt, and just as they 
passed under the wire, poked her nose in front, and 
won the race. The owner of the favorite gave a groan. 
“That ruins me, Harry,” he said to my cousin, 
“that son of a bitch of mine can’t go fast enough.” 

The judges now put out the number of our horse, 
and my cousin gave our tickets to one of his hangers- 
on to collect. The owner of the favorite tore his 
up slowly, “It’s clear ruin,” he said, “suicide is 
the only thing left.” 

“Oh, it can’t be as bad as that,” said my cousin, 
“you’ll brace up to-morrow.” 

“Never,” the other replied, “I’ve exhausted 
every resource to bet on this race. I had the thing 
sure. Jackson’s horse was the only one I was 
afraid of, and he scratched him, as he promised me. 
I can never pay what I owe.” He stopped and 

LofC. 


100 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


looked desperately up and down the track. Then 
he turned suddenly to my cousin; “Harry/^ he 
said, “give me a hundred dollars for the Queen 
and I’ll go home and make up with my father and 
stop racing for good.” 

My cousin shook his head. “I’ll buy you a ticket 
for home,” he said, “but I would not take the Queen 
for a gift. She’ll ruin any man that races her.” 

“But she’s sound and strong,” the owner inter- 
jected. 

“Sound and strong all right,” answered my 
cousin, “but she can’t spurt. I’ve told you that 
fifty times. She’s all right for endurance, but she 
has no speed. I’d back her in a three mile race, 
but nothing less.” 

The owner gave another groan and dug his heel in the 
sand. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I turned 
to the owner. “A hundred dollars seems a very 
cheap price for your horse,” I said, “why do you 
ask so little?” 

“There’s a feed bill to pay,” he answered, “and 
a slow race horse is a hard thing to sell.” 

“How much is the feed bill?” I asked. 

“Oh, seventy-five or a hundred — not over a 
hundred.” 

“I’ll buy the Queen,” I said. 

“Are you serious?” he said, and there was a 
little choke in his voice. 

“Dead serious,” I answered, “if you can give me 
a clean bill of sale.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


101 


“That I can/’ he replied, “and I’ll leave for 
home to-night.” 

In an hour everything had been arranged, and 
I had sent my horse to a livery stable in town. 
My cousin was disposed to guy me over my purchase, 
and prophesied my ruin; but he did not know the 
idea that had suddenly occurred to me. That morning 
I had happened to think, on passing the St. Charles 
hotel, of looking over the letters, and I found that 
one had been lying there for me for nearly three 
weeks. It was from Howland, and had been written 
shortly after I had left Galveston. It was quite 
a long letter, and among other things, it said: “It 
was well that you left town as suddenly as you did. 
The whole Ewing and Andrews tribe are after you. 
They threaten to do all sorts of things as soon as 
they find out where you are. Ewing, as I don’t 
suppose you know, was pretty badly hurt. His 
jaw was broken by your blow. He will not appear 
in public for some time — but really I am angry 
with you for leaving so suddenly. It has given 
all the ill-natured people a chance to say that you 
ran away because you were afraid, and the poker 
story has been revived again. Still, it is as well that 
you do not come here for a while, as the whole 
town is incensed against you.” The remainder 
of the letter was unimportant. 

And this had decided me to return to Galveston 
immediately. My intention had been to take 
the train the next afternoon, though I had as yet 


102 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


said nothing to my cousin ; but the offer of the horse 
had changed all my plans, and even while the man 
had been speaking, I had made up my mind to 
ride to Galveston. Ethel was something of an 
obstacle, as she had more than once told me during 
the past week that she had made up her mind 
to never leave me. To prevent a scene I decided 
not to tell her that I was going. I was really under 
no obligations to her, as during the two or three weeks 
that we had been together, she had cost me several 
hundred dollars in dresses and silk underclothes, 
for she was very dainty in her personal habits; and 
there was no fear of her breaking her heart, as 
her love, though strong while it lasted, was not 
of a particularly durable quality. She had already 
confided to me the history of several of her previous 
affairs. To leave some money for her with my cousin 
would be enough, though she had also won some- 
thing on the races. 

The next morning I bought a rough suit of Scotch 
tweed, and a pair of black leather riding leggins 
which fitted like boots, and reached to just above 
my knees in front; I liked them much better than 
those hideous English riding things. I also bought 
a grey slouch hat, something like those used in 
the army, though with a slightly .wider brim, and 
in lieu of a shirt, wore a bicycle sweater which 
fitted closely round the throat. I rode an English 
saddle with sweat-leathers. A pair of heavy leather 
gauntlets completed my costume. My personal 
baggage was very light; a pipe and a sack of tobacco, 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


103 


a toothbrush, a pair of pajamas, and a rubber 
rain coat. These, except my pipe and tobacco, 
I rolled up and fastened to the back of my saddle 
by strings which I had attached for the purpose. 
My money, which in spite of all my expenses, had 
increased, and now amounted to over fifteen hundred 
dollars, I converted into N. Y. exchange, except 
a hundred dollars which I reserved for expenses 
on the road. 

About noon, after having had my horse re-shod 
for the road, I went to bid my cousin good-by. I 
had expected him to be surprised, but was disap- 
pointed. He had lived a life of excitement too 
long for a trifle like my sudden departure to dis- 
turb his equanimity. He was sorry to lose me, 
though, he said, and promised to look after Ethel. 
I then crossed the river and started on my journey. 
The day was cold, but clear and dry. I chose the 
line of the Southern Pacific, as I had not the slightest 
idea of the road, and it would serve as a guide. I 
did not mount my mare until I was in Algiears, and 
my first introduction to her was exciting. She was 
as timid as an old woman trying to cross lower 
Broadway during the height of traffic. Every mo- 
ment she tried to bolt, and before I reached my 
night’s stopping place, my arms were nearly wrenched 
out of their sockets. I only made twelve miles, 
but was as tired, and Queen was as exhausted as 
though we had gone fifty. I spent the night at a 
farm house. The next day was almost as bad. I 
was stiff and sore, and after covering some fifteen 


104 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


miles had to stop for repairs. I spent the after- 
noon getting acquainted with Queen. It was a 
long time since I had last groomed a horse, and my 
ideas were rather hazy, but with the aid of a nigger 
boy I managed to make a pretty fair job, and 
Queen seemed grateful. The third day I started 
early. For half an hour Queen and I fought along 
as usual. I was beginning to grow tired, when 
suddenly she dropped into the most perfect fox 
trot that I have ever known. The change was like 
moving from a broken legged rocking-horse into an 
arm chair. For mile after mile she continued 
without tiring. We must have gone twenty-five or 
thirty miles when I stopped for the day. It was 
not yet noon. From now on I hM no trouble. 
Day after day passed without incident. The 
weather was perfect. Hardly any rain fell. Queen 
grew to know my voice and obeyed me like a dog. 

We had been out ten days. I had missed the 
main road. About dark I found myself in front of 
a negroes cabin inside of which some sort of jollifi- 
cation was going on. I stopped to find out where 
I was. The nearest village was some six or eight 
miles distant. I asked permission to spend the 
night, which was readily granted, though with many 
apologies for the poor accommodation. I decided 
to sleep outside. The place was crowded with 
darkies who had come to attend a wedding which 
had taken place that noon, and to indulge in a dance 
in honor of the bride and groom. 

After supper, which I enjoyed more than any 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


105 


meal that I had ever taken in my life, I lit my pipe 
and stretched out on the cot which they had pre- 
pared for me outside, and, with Queen for a com- 
panion, wrapped in a blanket, which with much 
difficulty I had induced them to sell me, I lay listen- 
ing for hours to their music and singing. About 
midnight the guests all left, and the house became 
quiet; but I had no desire to sleep. Some chords 
had been stirred in me which had been lying dor- 
mant for many days. For hours I watched the 
different constellations as they drifted past, and 
reviewed more calmly than I had ever done before 
my past life. I cannot remember the exact se- 
quence of my thoughts, but just before dawn I 
came to a resolution: come what would, and cost 
what it might, Mary should become my wife; or I 
would die trying — from that moment, in thought or 
action, I would do nothing that would render me 
unworthy of her highest self. I left my cot and 
walked up and down the road until daylight, when 
I fed and attended to my horse. 

After breakfast I was about to light my pipe as 
usual, when, like a blow, I suddenly remembered 
that Mary did not like smoking. I hesitated: a 
life without smoking or a life without Mary. For 
an instant my whole future hung in the balance. 
If I failed now at the outset I knew that I should 
never have the strength to try again. No more 
drinking: no more of the wild excitements of the 
Mardi-Gras balls : no more Ethels — then I put my 
pipe under my heel and crushed the bowl to pieces. 


106 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


And now I was possessed with an almost feverish 
anxiety to reach Galveston. I urged my horse on 
to the limit of her strength. The next Saturday 
night saw me at a large farm house only ten miles 
distant from Mary. I stopped there so as to enter 
early Sunday morning. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


107 


VI. 

It was just 9:30 when I rode into the livery 
stable, where, before I left Galveston, I had been 
accustomed to hire my horses. Only the stable 
boys were present. I left Queen with them to re- 
ceive a thorough cleaning, and walked to the barber- 
shop on Tremont street about half a block distant. 
I entered by the side door and went direct to the 
bath-room. I had met no one that I knew. While 
undressing I sent out a messenger to the nearest 
haberdasher that he might find open to buy me a 
complete suit of underwear, and a white shirt with 
collar and cuffs, and all the various sundries which 
would be necessary for a complete interior change 
from the ground up. My coat had stood the trip 
well, and would still make a good appearance. 
My hat I also retained. Undressed, I went to the 
steam-room, and then had a rub-down. I spent 
about an hour and a half in the bath, then went to 
the main room to dress. I borrowed a razor from 
the barber-shop and shaved. I felt almost painfully 
clean, when, at a quarter to twelve, I returned 
again to the stable. Queen had also had a bath, 
and looked as fresh as I did. I had her saddled and 
rode out. The day was clear, and rather cold for 
that latitude in March. I wanted to see Howland, 
but a message that I had sent to his room had been 
returned undelivered. I would probably find him 
at church— either the Episcopalian or Presbyterian; 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


m 

probably the latter, as Miss Wallace attended there, 
and also, sometimes, Mary. It stood at the corner 
of 19th and Winnie. I rode there. They were 
singing inside, from which I judged that the sermon 
was over, so I drew Queen up to the edge of the 
sidewalk in front of the main entrance, and waited. 
After a short time the music stopped; then came a 
long period of silence; then the big doors of the 
church opened, and the people began pouring out, 
at first stragglingly, and then in a solid mass. 

If it had been my intention to create a sensation 
I certainly succeeded. I did not know one-tenth 
of the people, but they all seemed to know me; and 
as soon as I was recognized a whispering started 
which passed through the entire crowd. I had not 
thought of this, and if it had not been that it would 
have appeared like running away in face of the 
enemy, I would have wheeled my horse around and 
escaped. As it was I fixed my eyes stonily, and 
pretended to be unconscious of the attention that 
I was attracting. The crowd was beginning to 
thin slightly when I saw Howland. He did not 
see me, as his attention was centered on buttoning 
his glove. I understood this, so was not surprised 
when the next instant Miss Wallace appeared. He 
joined her, and apparently asked permission to 
walk home with her, for they came down the steps 
together^ 

Of all the people in Galveston, except Mary, these 
were the only two whose friendship I cared for, and 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


109 


I wondered now how they would greet me, for they 
could not well pass without seeing me. If they 
cut me the blow would hurt. At the bottom of the 
steps they turned towards Broadway, and then 
Miss Wallace saw me. She gave a little exclama- 
tion of surprise, then, leaving Howland’s side, 
walked to the edge of the sidewalk and held out her 
hand. ‘^Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” she said. 

I took her glove in my heavy gauntlet and pressed 
it warmly — almost more warmly than I had any 
right to do — but when one is braced against the 
world a little kindness is unnerving. She gave me 
one quick look, then her eyes fell. The next in- 
stant Howland was at her side, and his greeting to 
me was as friendly as hers had been, though differ- 
ently expressed. I never thought the sight of your 
face would give me so much pleasure,” he said as 
he shook my hand, ‘‘but you represent two new hats, 
a new suit, and a tennis racket.” 

“And I have five pounds of candy, and a pair of 
the best gloves made,” interjected Miss Wallace. 

Then followed a volley of questions and answers 
while the last stragglers from church looked on in 
undisguised amazement. They had, it seemed, been 
betting that I would return before the end of Lent. 

Presently Miss Wallace said, “You must come and 
take dinner with me to-day,” then, seeing dissent in 
my eyes, continued before I had time to reply, “You 
must come. There will only be Mr. Howland and 
papa, and I have a thousand questions to ask you.” 


no 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


^^But I haven’t any clothes,” I objected. 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” she answered, “come as you 
are;” then, as she looked me over critically, added, 
“You’re all right; you look as if you had just stepped 
out of a picture-book.” 

I bowed ironically, and she laughed: “Come along 
with us now,” then, as she saw Queen for the first 
time, she cried, “What a beautiful horse,” and 
stepped forward to pat her on the neck. 

I was about to make some reply, when Queen, 
who had been growing more and more restless, 
sprang forward at her movement, and it was not 
until Broadway was reached that I was able to get 
her close to the sidewalk again. But even then con- 
nected conversation was impossible, for the crowd, 
and the women’s dresses, and the electric cars, 
made her so nervous that it was all I could do to 
to keep her from bolting. 

On Broadway and 21st street there was a block 
of the cars coming from the beach, and I had to 
rein up until they passed. Queen was almost wild, 
now, and I had to keep constantly caressing her 
neck and lavishing enough terms of endearment on 
her to supply a honeymoon to keep her quiet. 

After over a minute the line started, each motor- 
man jangling his warning bell. This was too much 
for Queen. As the last car passed, she jerked her 
head free and sprang forward before I could see 
whether the other track was clear. I leant for- 
ward and got a good grip on the reins again, just 
as a deep shout of warning came from the crowd. I 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


111 


looked up. Coming rapidly from the opposite di- 
rection was another car which until now had been 
hidden from view. It was not five feet from me, 
and Queen’s front hoofs were already almost on 
the rails. The warning came too late. There was 
not time to pass in front, and Queen’s momentum 
was too great to stop her before she should reach the 
rails. I grew cold as ice, but my head was clear. 
I heard a woman’s scream, and the same instant, 
by sheer strength, raised Queen on her hind legs, 
with her front hoofs almost touching the top of the 
car. A second more and the danger was over. The 
car passed: but Queen still stood swaying in the air 
almost paralized with terror. I leaned far forward 
to prevent her from falling backward on me and 
looked around. There on the opposite corner, only 
a few yards from me, stood Mary. Her hands were 
tightly clasped over her breast, and her lips were 
slightly parted as though she were exhausted from 
running. By her side stood Ewing. 

Another instant and it was. over. Queen’s front 
hoofs came slowly to the ground, and tremblingly 
she picked her way across the track and to the op- 
posite side of the street. The crowd began moving 
again and the hum of conversation recommenced. 
Howland and Miss Wallace crossed the street, the 
latter’s face bleached of every particle of color. I 
jumped off Queen, and, slipping her bridle over my 
arm, joined them; though before I spoke I put my 
arm around Queen’s neck, and, after pressing her 
to me, gave her a lump of sugar. In our long ride 


112 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


she had learned that sugar meant approval, and now, 
though she only sniffed at it at first, it quieted her 
somewhat, and presently she took it in her mouth. 
I then turned to Miss Wallace. The color was slowly 
coming back to her face, though I noticed that the 
hand which held her unopened parasol was trem- 
bling. 

Howland was the first to speak, “Where in the 
world did you get that horse, Graham?’^ he asked. 

It was typical of him not to make any comment 
on the little incident just passed, though his face 
had also a bleached look. 

“New Orleans,” I answered. 

“How did you get it here?” 

“I rode.” 

We had been walking along slowly, but now he 
stopped abruptly, “You rode — from New Orleans?” 

“From New Orleans,” I answered, and then I 
saw a chance for some revenge. Just in front of us, 
detained by the crowd which had been caused by 
the block of the cars, were Mary and Ewing — 
they could not help but hear our conversation. 
“You remember the letter you wrote me just after 
I left,” I continued, “How the jackals were feasting 
on my reputation: How some had even said that I 
had left for fear of the consequences of having 
thrashed a cur — whereas I considered * that I had 
performed a praiseworthy action — all this decided 
me to return immediately. Unfortunately, however, 
your letter laid in the St. Charles hotel three weeks 
before I received it. I had not dreamed after 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


113 


your note to me, in which you said that the true 
story of the night before was becoming known, and 
that I would be thoroughly cleared, that the false- 
hoods would be revived again in my absence. The 
cause of my sudden departure was something which 
had absolutely no connection with that day’s events 
— the cause — was — a misdirected letter which was 
returned to me while you were away from — the — 
dead-letter office.” I stopped. We had reached 
the corner of Tremont. Mary and Ewing had 
heard every word. We crossed the street, while 
they turned to the left. For the last half block 
Ewing had been making desperate efforts to get 
out of ear-shot, without actually shoving the people 
in front of him out of the way; but the crowd in 
front had been too thick. 

Across the street, and in front of Miss Wallace’s 
house we stopped, and Miss Wallace ran inside to 
call a groom to take my horse to the stable. As 
soon as she was gone Howland gave his low, selfish 
laugh of inward enjoyment; ‘^Graham,” he said, 
“you are the most vindictive scoundrel I know. 
May we never become enemies. You are capable 
of charging a battery with a tooth-pick, or hiding 
behind a fence and shooting your enemy through 
the back.” 

Probably my action would not bear critical ex- 
amination, but Ewing was engaged to Mary, and I 
hated him and despised him as I had never hated 
or despised a human being before. If it became 
necessary Howland’s estimate of my character might 


114 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


not prove so wrong, though up to that moment I 
had never thought of killing Ewing except in a gen- 
eral way. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


115 


VII. 

Howland’s words were intended jestingly, but 
nevertheless they expressed to a certain extent his 
true feelings. I spent a week in my old rooms 
next to his office, and then moved. A something 
had come between us — and that something was Miss 
Wallace. We were both reticent men, and neither 
of us had ever told the other our real feelings toward 
the two girls to whom we had both shown marked 
attention. I was almost certain that he was in love 
with Miss Wallace, while I do not think that he 
even suspected my feelings toward Mary. Ajid I 
think that the last Sunday had caused him to be- 
lieve that I was his rival. Miss Wallace had been 
extremely nice to me during the dinner, and maybe 
I had responded more than I ought to have, though 
she was such a very nice girl that there was nothing 
surprising in that — still, I was not in the least in 
love with her. However it was, though, Howland and 
I began to drift apart, and a week showed me that 
we would be better friends if a little more distance 
should separate us. I also had another reason for 
leaving. Mary was still as unapproachable as ever. 
Cat-a-cornered from her house was a large boarding- 
house, the corner room of which commanded the 
whole place. As I could not speak to her, I, at 
least, wished to be as near her as possible; so, one 
afternoon, as I was walking past, I stopped there. 
Somebody, I forget now whom, had told me that 


116 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


the corner room was vacant. I went inside and 
asked for the landlady. Here a surprise awaited 
me: I found that the boarding-house keeper was an 
old Sunday-school teacher of mine, in the days 
when I had been a sweet, innocent boy, and that 
she was a strong partisan of mine. I secured the 
room without difficulty, and that night slept within 
a hundred yards of Mary. 


I had been a week in Galveston, as I have said, 
before I moved. Though I had not succeeded in 
getting speech with Mary, it had not been entirely 
wasted, for I was seeing her every day. The Sunday 
evening of my arrival, before going to bed, I had 
mapped out a most ironclad regime of work to oc- 
cupy every minute of my time, for I did not dare 
to be idle. The morning hours were to be divided 
between writing and exercise, and the evening to 
reading or calling. I had decided to give up the 
club. The first item on my list was a ride before 
breakfast, and Monday morning, shortly after six, 
I was on the beach. I rode westward for nearly an 
hour, and then turned homeward. I was about a 
mile from Tremont street when I saw Mary in the 
distance coming towards me. She was walking 
her horse, and I instantly brought Queen down to 
the same gait. We approached each other slowly. 
Whether it was pride on her part or some other 
reason I do not know, but she made no effort to avoid 
me after she recognized me. We passed within a 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


117 


few feet of each other, and I might as well have been 
in Egypt in so far as she showed any consciousness 
of my presence. It required all my self-control to 
keep from speaking to her, but I succeeded, and 
passed her with a face as expressionless as her own, 
though inwardly I was trembling. The next day I 
met her again at nearly the same hour, and so, day 
after day, for the remainder of the week. 

At first, in spite of the pain, these meetings 
pleased me; then they only tantalized me the more. 
Mid-Lent was over, and after Lent she had told me 
that her engagement to Ewing would be announced. 
I wrote her four or five letters, none of which, of 
course, I sent. She had already shown me the use- 
lessness of writing. 


The first week was over and I had not succeeded 
in securing a single word with Mary. The schemes 
I had evolved for getting her alone and forcing her 
to talk with me were endless. One, which I never 
really seriously considered, but which I worked out 
in a number of different ways in my waking dreams, 
was to kidnap her. The favorite of these was to 
carry her off in a steam yacht. I would send her a 
forged note from her father, or somebody else, telling 
her to come down to the pier to look at a new boat. 
She would, of course, enter into the cabin without 
suspicion. Then, while some one was showing her 
around, the boat would start. If she should notice 
the movement, and should inquire the reason, she 


118 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


would be told that they were going to take a trip 
out to the jetties. This would not excite her sus- 
picions, as somebody or other does it every day. 
Once out of sight of land I would appear, and then — 
the tragedy would begin. The drawbacks to this plan 
were many. First, I did not have money enough 
to buy a steam yacht — this, of course, was not in- 
surmountable, as I might be able to steal one — 
but, second, the crew: the most hardened pirate 
cannot run a steam yacht without coal passers, and 
the other smutty looking creatures who live below. 
These would have to be taken into my confidence, 
and that was out of the question. Third — and the 
really insurmountable obstacle — was that after we 
had actually put to sea, and I had appeared in my 
character of villain, all that she would have to do 
would be to say, “Mr. Woodhouse, please put me 
ashore immediately,” and I would do it. I would 
not want to do it, but I would. Then she would 
leave with scorn in her eye, and I would sit on the 
smoke-stack and bite my nails. I can work out 
theoretically the most complicated schemes, but 
when they involve forcing a woman against her will 
I cannot carry them out. 

So I was seeing Mary every day and she was ignor- 
ing my presence. I wonder now how I stood it. It 
was only by adhering rigorously to my program that 
I managed to get through the day. It was ride, 
breakfast, writing, gymnasium, dinner, writing, 
walk, supper, reading or calling, bed. Miss Wallace 
was the greatest comfort to me. I called there 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


119 


two or three times a week. She helped to take me 
out of myself. Sometimes I ran across Howland 
there, but generally I would let her know by tele- 
phone when I was coming so as to find her alone. 
She was the only girl I called on, though I might 
have called on some of the others, as none of my 
former acquaintances failed to bow to me when I 
met them on the street. 

It was the morning after I had changed my lodg- 
ings. I had slept late. As I started out I passed 
Mary on the beach going homewards. She cut 
me as usual. For several days, now, I had been 
racing Queen every morning to keep her in con- 
dition, and to relieve me of the nervousness caused 
by my stopping smoking. Another of my favorite 
day-dreams was to have Mary’s horse run away and 
to rescue her; but she rode too well. 

After I had passed her this morning, and had 
come to a clear part of the beach, I let Queen out for 
her usual run. I was far too heavy for a jockey, of 
course, though Queen was naturally a weight-car- 
rier, and must have come from hunting stock. We 
had only gone a few hundred yards when I was taken 
with a most violent stitch in the heart which almost 
stopped my breathing. I tried to pull in Queen, 
but she knew that she had not gone her regular 
distance, so supposed that I was only joking, for 
she did not stop. Again I pulled on the reins with- 
out success. Then the pain became so intense that 
it was either stop or fall off. I gave a last terrific 
jerk. The right bridle-rein broke ; but the left held, 


120 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


and I pulled Queen into the gulf. This stopped her 
running pretty quickly, but to punish her I made 
her stay in the water until I could breathe again. 

I patched up the bridle sufficiently to take me 
home, and during the day I bought another and 
stronger one; but the accident had given a new 
turn to my thoughts, and in my next day-dream I 
had Mary’s bridle break. And why shouldn’t it 
break — it was much less strong than the one of mine 
that had broken. Where it joined the bit there 
were a dozen or so nickel plated steel links, and 
nothing is more easy than for one of these links to 
become loose. And then a hard pull on the bridle, 
a jerk of her horse’s head, and she would find herself 
helpless — and her horse had both these habits. 

The next day I watched from my window until I 
saw the stable-boy bring her horse around to the 
side gate of her house before I went down to the 
stable to saddle Queen — I had moved her from the 
livery stable in town the day before. I waited until 
Mary mounted before I started out. Not to appear 
to be following her I rode down Bath avenue to the 
beach, and then in the same direction that she had 
taken, though at a considerable distance behind. 
Her horse was more restless than usual, but I waited 
in vain for her bridle to break. The next day, 
Wednesday, it was the same. 

It was during my walk that afternoon that the 
idea, which had been gradually forming in my mind, 
first took definite shape. I had been thinking of 
my cousin, from whom I had received a letter a 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


121 


few hours before, stating that he had expressed my 
trunk, and that Ethel had left New Orleans, and a 
favorite remark of his was running through my 
mind: '^When Providence don’t help me, I try to 
help Providence.” 

Providence was not helping me, and the time had 
come to act. 

During the evening and late into the night, I 
worked on the details of my plan. It was desperate 
enough, but I must have an opportunity to talk 
with Mary alone, and by her own free will. 

The next day, when I thought it over, I changed 
my mind, and decided to do what I had refrained 
from doing since my return — that is, to write to 
Mary again. I found the letter a very hard one, 
and though I tried to make it short, feeling how 
hopeless it was, I could not. When it was finished I 
sent it immediately to Mary’s house by a messenger. 
In about half an hour he returned and handed me a 
well-filled envelope addressed in her writing. I 
paid him for his trip and waited until he had left 
the room before I opened it. As I feared, my own 
letter was returned ; but there was also a short note 
from Mary. I read it eagerly. 

“Dear Mr. Woodhouse,” it said, “pardon me if I seem 
unnecessarily rude in returning you your letter unopened, 
but nothing that you could say can make any difference now. 
Please do not write to me again.” 

My first sensation was one of relief, for the sight 
of my own letter returned had prepared me for 
something terrible and for the remainder of the day 


122 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


I admitted myself beaten, and gave up all thought 
of carrying my plan into execution. But during the 
night the reaction set in, and I awoke the next 
morning undecided. I rode out earlier than usual, 
not waiting for Mary to start; but though I spent 
until nine o’clock on the beach, she did not appear ^ 
nor did I see her during the entire day. This was 
the last straw; my scruples vanished, and during the 
night I carried out my plan. 

Long before daylight the next day, Saturday, I 
was up and dressed, and watching Mary’s house from 
my window. Six — seven — eight o’clock came, but 
her horse was not brought out. At half past eight 
I went down stairs to the dining-room, and ate a very 
light breakfast, watching, the while, the front of 
Mary’s house, for from my seat at the table I could 
command a view of the street; but nothing hap- 
pened. Finishing breakfast I returned to my room, 
and resumed my seat at the window. At ten Mary 
came out of the front gate dressed for the street, 
and I knew that she would not ride that morning. 
This gave me a moment’s respite, so I took a trip to 
the stable to see whether the man I had hired had 
followed the instructions I had given him in regard 
to Queen. She was just finishing breakfast, so I 
told him to give her nothing more to eat until further 
orders. 

I then returned to my room, and resumed my 
watching, for though it was hardly probable that 
Mary would ride at that hour of the day, I did not 
dare to take any chances. 


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At twelve she returned, and at one her father 
came in. Walter, by the by, was not in town, 
having been exiled to his father’s sugar planta- 
tion, nominally as manager, but in reality in dis- 
grace. I knew that she was safe for an hour or 
two, so dined, before resuming my watch. The 
time passed with fearful slowness, and after four 
it fairly dragged. There was no way of killing 
it. I was not smoking, and I was not drinking, 
and I did not dare to take my eyes long enough 
away from the house to read. Half past four — 
quarter to five — if the horse did not appear at five 
Mary would not ride that day, and I would have 
another twenty-four hours of suspense, with the 
strong probability of my action being discovered. 

It was just five minutes to five when the stable 
door opened, and the coachman led out Mary’s 
horse — saddled. I slipped my little pistol in the in- 
side breast pocket of my coat, and the next instant 
was in the stable saddling Queen feverishly, but 
with great care — everything now depended on 
her. Before passing through the gate of the stable- 
yard, which opened on the alley, I looked through 
a crack in the fence at Mary’s house. Two horses 
were now in front of it, and Ewing was just assisting 
Mary to mount. I cursed deeply, but remained 
looking until Mary was safely up, and Ewing was 
also mounted. His horse was one that I had never 
seen before, and I noticed that the coachman had 
to hold its head while he struggled into the saddle. 
He could not ride a little bit. They started, then 


124 


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I led Queen out, and mounted also. They were 
about a hundred yards ahead. Ewing^s horse 
was dancing from one side of the street to the other, 
and he had his hands full. They continued at a 
walk until the beach was reached, and then turned 
westward. A cold breeze was coming from the 
gulf, and a light fog was rising. There were but 
few people out driving. I followed them, still 
the same distance behind. I do not think they 
noticed me. 

They had gone about half a mile, still walking, 
when Mary, after apparently saying something 
to Ewing, touched her horse with her whip. 
He started off at a quick pace, and Ewing’s 
horse, which had been growing more and more 
restless, sprang after him. The jump caused 
Ewing to lose his seat, and he pulled heavily 
on the reins. But his horse’s blood was up, and 
he still continued forward with a series of bounds, 
his speed increasing each instant. I saw that the 
end was coming and let Queen out a little. The 
next moment Ewing half slipped, half jumped from 
his horse, losing the reins as he did so. He landed 
on his feet and his horse was off like a shot. Mary 
turned at his cry, and tried to stop her horse. She 
put both hands to the reins and pulled heavily. 
Her horse threw his head back suddenly, almost 
striking her in the face, and then jerked forward. 
The reins broke and she swayed backwards in 
the saddle. For a moment she hung there, and I 
thought that she was about to fall, and my heart 


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125 


stopped beating; but gradually she straightened 
up and resumed her seat while her horse lowered 
its head and was off after Ewing’s at a dead run. 
The next instant Queen and I dashed by Ewing, 
as he stood helpless, and the race began. My 
plan was working. My nervousness fell from me 
and my brain grew clear. I saw everything without 
looking: to the westward the setting sun half hidden 
by a mass of blood-red clouds all growing fainter 
each instant under the haze of the fast thickening 
fog: in front, Mary, some sixty yards away, bending 
forward and apparently grasping her horse’s mane: 
on my left the gulf gently rippling on the hard 
shell beach. She had thrown away her useless 
reins, but her whip was still hanging from her 
wrist. 

A minute passed, and then, for the first time, a 
great dread seized me, for I saw that I was not 
gaining. The cold sweat oozed out on my forehead 
in great drops. The strain was terrible. We were 
alone on the beach, now, for the few carriages going 
in our direction had been quickly left behind, while 
none were coming toward us. Another minute 
passed, and then at last training began to tell; 
inch by inch, foot by foot, I gradually crept up; 
yard by yard the distance between us lessened. 
Mary’s hat had fallen off, and her hair was loosening. 
As I came still nearer I could hear that she was 
breathing in short gasps, and saw that she was 
swaying in the saddle. It was now simply a question 
of endurance. To spur Queen I knew was useless— 


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she was doing her best. A long interval, or what 
seemed long then, followed, while I sat helplessly 
in the saddle. But still the distance between us 
lessened, until I was not more than five yards 
behind. Her horse was now laboring badly, and 
its even gait had changed to a series of jerks. In 
one of these he shook her hands loose from his 
mane, and she swayed heavily to one side supported 
only by her foot in the stirrup. I had kept silent 
until now, but the sight of her about to fall was 
more than I could endure, and, beside myself, I 
cried out, ‘Tor God’s sake, Mary, keep your seat 
a moment longer.” 

She heard me, for her shoulders suddenly straight- 
ened, and for an instant she again sat erect in the 
saddle. I thought quickly. My horse had now 
approached to within a yard of hers. On my left 
was the gulf — on my right the sand hills. I pulled 
on the left rein and passed between her and the 
water. As I reached her side she turned for the 
first time and looked at me. Though her eyes 
were open she seemed to have lost consciousness. 
Her breathing had ceased. There was not an 
instant to lose. My reins were in my left hand. 
I let the left rein slip from my fingers and pulled 
strongly on the right. Queen, obedient to the 
pressure, began crowding Mary’s horse off the 
firm shell beach, and on to the thick sand a few 
yards to the right. A second more and both horses 
were plowing through it fetlock deep. I put my arm 
around Mary’s waist, and whispered to her to loosen 


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127 


her foot from the stirrup. She obeyed me mechanical- 
ly. Another second and the horses had breasted a 
little sand hill, and were pausing exhausted on the 
top. I lifted Mary from her horse. As I did so her 
eyes closed, and I saw that she had fainted. I 
rested her a moment in front of me on the saddle, 
while I slipped to the ground; then I raised her 
in my arms and carried her down the landward 
side of the little sand hill. Her own horse, freed 
from the burden, wheeled around, and started 
homeward along the beach. Queen followed me. 
There was a little pool of water in a hollow at the 
bottom, and by the edge of this I laid Mary, with 
her head resting in the bend of my right arm. I 
dipped my handkerchief in the water and bathed 
her forehead. Her face was colorless; there was 
not the slightest movement to her body, and she 
seemed to have stopped breathing. Seconds — 
minutes — passed ; how long I do not know. I 
felt that the end had come. I bent down and 
kissed her on the forehead — on the lips. Her 
body was still warm. With what half crazy words 
I begged her to come back to me I cannot now 
remember. Suddenly I felt her move slightly; 
then her eyes opened, and she looked at me; but 
there seemed to be no intelligence in her gaze. 
Then her breath began to come in short gasps — 
her breast heaved — then with a half articulate 
cry she raised herself, but fell back again in my 
arms. 


128 


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— choking/’ she gasped, ‘‘open — niy — dress.” 
Then she fainted again. 

Like a blind man I fumbled about her throat 
to find the fastening. The hook was hidden, and 
I cursed mentally, as I had often done before, over 
the intricacies of woman’s dress. At last I found 
it, and unfastened it, as well as those which suc- 
ceeded, until she could breathe freely. I noticed 
then, even in my excitement, that she did not wear 
corsets. I closed her dress again loosely over her 
breast, and once more bathed her forehead with 
water. Her consciousness returned this time more 
quickly than before, and she did not faint again; 
though, as her strength returned, she must, for 
the first few minutes, have suffered fearfully, for 
she could not breathe fast enough to fill her lungs, 
and each breath cut like a knife. I could do nothing 
but support her head, and bathe her forehead 
with .water. Once or twice I heard the sound of 
voices, and the beat of horses’ hoofs from the 
direction of the beach; but the fog and the sand 
hills hid us completely from the world, and we 
remained undiscovered. Presently Mary asked me 
for some water to drink. I looked around, but 
there was nothing that I could use to dip the water 
up with. My hat might have done, but it had 
fallen from my head during the ride. I thought 
a moment, and then remembered that I had with 
me the earliest of all cups — my hand. I told 
her this, and for the first time in many weeks she 
looked at me in the eyes and smiled. Then I 


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129 


knew that the past was forgiven. Leaning over 
her I made a cup as well as I could with my hand, 
and, filling it with water, raised it to her lips. She 
sipped it eagerly, and asked for more. Again and 
again I filled my hand. She was as weak as a 
baby, and could not even raise her head without 
my assistance. Once she tried to, but had to let 
it fall back again. Something in the motion re- 
called to me the evening I had carried her across 
the gutter, and, looking down into her eyes, I said, 
‘^Do you know what this reminds me of?” 

A faint color came to her cheeks, and she turned 
her eyes away from mine as she answered, “No, 
I don^t;” but I do not think that she was telling the 
truth. We were very silent after this, and the 
darkness of early evening closed around us. Again 
there came the sound of voices from the beach. 
This time Mary also heard them. She raised her 
head slightly and listened. “Were those not 
voices calling?” she asked. 

I answered promptly that they were not. She 
let her head sink down again, but I could feel 
that she was still listening. The calls were not 
repeated, however, and once more there was silence 
between us. I wished to speak, but for the moment 
the words needed would not come to me. Some 
minutes passed, then Mary raised her head again. “I 
feel stronger now,” she said, “please help me up.” 

I raised her to her feet and stood from her. In- 
stantly she swayed backwards, and would have 
fallen, had I not caught her, and once more she 


130 


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rested helplessly in my arms. “Oh, how wretchedly 
weak I am,’^ she said; then she looked down and 
saw that her dress was open. “Did — you — do — 
this?’^ she asked. It sounded like an accusation. 

“You told me to,” I cried; “Don’t you remember? 
you were choking, and you told me to open your 
dress.” 

“After you ” she stopped abruptly, then 

continued with many pauses: “Yes, I remember — 
I was suffering fearfully — you cannot think how 
I suffered the last few minutes of the ride — I felt 
myself choking to death — I was about to fall when 

you called to me ” all the while she was fastening 

her dress feverishly — “you saved my life.” Then 
her strength deserted her utterly, and she sank 
to the ground sobbing convulsively. Instantly 
I knelt beside her and put my arm around her 
waist. I was torn with remorse, but it was too 
late for regrets, and the time to speak had come. 
Any moment we might be interrupted. 

“Mary,” I said. 

“Don’t, please don’t,” she cried. 

But I knew that it was my only chance, and 
continued: “I must speak now — you know why 
I am here in Galveston again — to see you. For 
two weeks I have waited for a chance — now it 
has come. You know that I love you ” 

“Don’t, oh, please don’t,” she cried again; and 
she drew her body away from me. I let my arm 
fall to my side. 

“I cannot detain you against your^will,” I said; 


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131 


‘‘but do you think that it is fair to refuse to listen 
to me?” 

Her sobbing had ceased, but she still sat helplessly 
on the ground; now she turned her head towards 
me; “I have told you that it is impossible,” she 
said. 

“Then you do not care for me at all? but no, do 
not answer; I know that you cannot care for me — 
that you have more reason to dislike me — somehow 
— through my own fault — through my misfortune — I 
have always shown you my worst side — but I have 
a better side — now — that we are alone — I want 
you to make me a promise. You say that I have 
saved your life — give me — give me twenty-four 
hours in return. Let me see you alone one hour 
each day — in your house — anywhere. If, on the 
twenty-fourth day, you tell me to go, I will leave 
Galveston, and I will promise that you shall never 
see me again. Give me this chance, will you not?” 
I stopped and took her hand. She let me hold it 
while she answered, though she would not look 
me in the face. “Listen, Mr. Woodhouse,” she 
said, “please don’t make this any harder for me 
than it is. I am really very, very grateful. If 
you had not saved me I would have fallen, or been 
dragged to death by my horse. I have never 
disliked you — except — but we are friends now. 
I cannot be anything more to you. You know 
that you don’t really — love — me — because you 

don’t know me ” I pressed her hand — “then, 

if you do love me, it would be still harder for you 


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afterwards — I am engaged — and — and it is im- 
possible.” She withdrew her hand from mine, and 
let it fall helplessly on the sand beside her. She 
looked so abject as she sat there, with her hair 
falling on her shoulders, and her eyes gazing down- 
wards, that I hesitated to urge her again; but I 
had gone too far to retreat. I knew that never 
again would I have the courage to risk what I 
had this day. My plan had succeeded better 
than I had dared to hope, and I would not lose all 
that I had gained by yielding to weakness now. 
I took her hand again in mine, and she let it rest 
there passively. It. was as cold as ice. “I know 
that you are engaged,” I said, “and I know how 
slight the chance is that I can ever make you feel 
towards me as I do towards you, but still that 
chance is everything to me. It is not so very much 
to ask, is it? Only one hour each day, I will take 
all the responsibility for what may happen on my- 
self, and will never blame you. After the twenty- 
four hours are over I will go and you will never 
see me again; but, oh, please, please, give me these 
hours.” 

Mary’s strength seemed to return to her suddenly, 
and she rose to her feet, “Do you think it is kind 
to urge me now, Mr. Woodhouse?” she asked, and 
her voice had a slight ring of anger in it. 

“No, I do not,” I answered. 

She smiled in spite of herself. “Then why do 
you do it?” 

“Because it is the only chance I will have of 


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133 


asking you. Soon you will be with your friends 
again, and then you will forget me.^^ 

will never forget this afternoon — nor you,” 
and her voice grew soft again 

“Then you will promise — you have warned me; 
but I refuse to take the warning. I ask for twenty- 
four hours in return for saving your life.” My 
voice trembled a little at this, for it made me feel 
like a hypocrite to use it as an argument, and Mary 
noticed it immediately. But she misunderstood 
my feelings— for how could she know that I had 
pre-arranged the accident — and it softened her still 
more. “I will promise then,” she said, “that is, 
if you insist; but remember that it is only as a 
friend.” 

I could hardly believe in my success. I took 
her hand again in mine — for she had removed hers 
when she rose to her feet — and said, “As friends, 
then,” I paused a moment before I continued, 
“you promise me on your honor to let me see you 
one hour each day for twenty-four days — no matter 
what happens?” 

She hesitated, but I was exerting all my will 
now, and she was still weak from her ride, “I prom- 
ise,” she said. 

For a moment we stood in silence. Then, from 
the direction of the beach came the sound of voices 
calling, and the gleam of many lanterns showed 
over the sand hills. Mary sprang from my side. 
“Oh, poor mama,” she cried, “I had forgotten her. 
They are searching for me. Call to them.” 


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I gave a loud shout, which was answered from 
the beach, and helped Mary up to the top of the 
sand hill. She was trembling so that I had almost 
to carry her, and she clutched my shoulder with 
all her strength, though almost unconscious of 
my presence. At the top of the hill I called again, 
and a dozen lights hurried towards us. We passed 
down the opposite side of the hill and walked 
toward the lights. Suddenly I felt something 
cold touch my cheek. I turned quickly. It was 
Queen, whom I had forgotten, and who had followed 
us silently. I slipped the bridle over my arm, and 
the next moment we were in the center of a group 
of horsemen. Just then a carriage dashed up, and 
a voice, shrill with fear, cried, ‘‘What is it; oh, 
my God, what is it?” I could not recognize who 
it was, but Mary did, and she ran forward as the 
door of the carriage was thrown open, and Mrs. 
Andrews stepped out. 

I had no part in the scene that followed. I 
turned to Queen and busied myself rearranging 
the saddle, and tightening the girth. The searchers 
on horseback, whom I now noticed were principally 
mounted policemen, began to disperse. Mary 
and her mother entered the carriage. I mounted 
Queen. As the carriage turned to begin its home- 
ward journey, I rode to its side. Mary^s head was 
resting on her mother’s shoulder, and their arms 
were around each other. I stopped at the window, 
and held out my hand to Mary, saying, “Good night.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


135 


She leaned forward and took my hand, ‘^Good-by, 
she said, ‘‘until to-morrow at four,” then she turned 
again to her mother. 


136 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


VIII. 

It was nearly nine when I went to breakfast 
the next morning. I had spent most of the night 
doctoring Queen, who had caught a bad cold from 
standing so long in the damp air after her race, 
and I, also, was feeling rather stiff and tired. 

I had just finished my oatmeal when a note 
was handed me. I recognized the writing immedi- 
ately; it was Mary’s. I turned cold all over — I 
knew that it meant bad news. I left the breakfast 
table and went to my room before I opened it. 
There were only a few lines, and I read them at 
a glance. The note ran: — 

^‘Dear Mr. Woodhouse: 

“Certain things have happened which will render it impos- 
sible for me to see you at my home this afternoon; but I am 
going out to the Denver Resurvey this morning on the ten 
o’clock car, and if you can join me I will explain. 

“Sincerely, 

“Mary Andrews.” 

I did not hesitate an instant, but got out my 
best suit of clothes, and began dressing hurriedly. 
I had about half finished, when I changed my 
mind about my clothes, and put on, instead, the 
rough tweed suit that I had worn on my ride to 
Galveston. It was a pleasant spring day, not at all 
cold, and an overcoat was unnecessary. I left 
the house at half past nine and walked to 30th 
street and Broadway so as not to have Mary see 


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137 


me waiting. She would get on the car, I knew, 
at 23d street. Two cars had passed almost empty, 
before Mary appeared. I recognized her two blocks 
off, though she was sitting near the center of the 
car, and I am ashamed to say that I immediately 
concealed myself behind a group of oleanders so 
that she should not see me until the car was abreast 
of where I stood. A long half minute passed before 
I heard the humming of the trolley; then I stepped 
forward quickly and boarded the car. My appear- 
ance took her by surprise, and the color, which 
she could never fully control, rose to her cheeks. 
But it passed almost instantly, and then I saw 
that she was deathly pale. I raised my hat and 
bowed, for no words came to me at the moment, 
and she bowed slightly in return. Then I took 
my seat beside her. Neither of us spoke, and the 
car rattled along up Broadway. We had it almost 
entirely to ourselves. At last I forced my nervous- 
ness down, and said, ‘A hope you were not hurt at 
all by what happened yesterday. It was not a 
very brilliant remark, but it was all that I could 
think of at the moment. 

‘T don't think so," she answered, ‘Though my 
shoulders pain me awfully, and all my strength 
seems gone." Then we fell silent again, and it 
was not until the car had turned the curve at 42nd 
street, and was nearing the cemetery, that I once 
more spoke. 

“Are you going to the Denver Resurvey for any 
particular reason?" I asked. 


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AN IMAGINARY STORY 


she answered slowly. ^There — it was — 
I must explain why you cannot call on me.’’ 

The car stopped a moment before the ceme- 
tery gates. “Then let’s get off here,” I said, “it’s — 
it’s rather a good place.” 

She understood my meaning instantly, and 
answered with a half smile, while she rose from her 
seat. I got off first, and she gave me her hand 
to help her down. As we walked towards the gate, 
I could see that she had not exaggerated her weak- 
ness, for she had to exert all her strength to keep 
from swaying from side to side. What a brute 
I felt like — and yet, if it had not been for yesterday, 
she would not have been with me now. We en- 
tered the gate and turned down one of the side 
paths. In my wanderings about Galveston, when 
I had been there before, I had drifted into the 
graveyard one day, and, in strolling around, had 
discovered a nook overgrown with vines where, 
unless one actually entered it, a person inside 
would be completely hidden from all passers-by. 
I led the way there now. There was an old tomb- 
stone, with the letters on it half obliterated, which 
served as a seat. We entered and sat down. Mary 
hesitated at first, then gave her skirt that peculiar 
twist, which only a woman can give, and took 
her place beside me. 

“I cannot help it;” she said, “whoever you are 
I apologize, but I am too tired to stand.” 

“It is a he,” I remarked, “part of his name is 
George; I am sure he won’t mind.” I paused a 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


139 


moment, then, changing the subject abruptly, 
said, ‘^And now you want to tell me why you sent 
that note this morning.’’ I tried to say this bravely, 
but in spite of myself there was a certain tremor 
in my voice. Mary turned to me with one of her 
quick glances which seemed to read one’s very 
thoughts. ^^You are frightened,” she cried. ^^Oh, 
I am so glad. I have been hating you for being 
so self-possessed ever since you got on the car. 
You did not seem to appreciate at all what I was 
doing for you — something that I have never done 
for any human being before. But you are not really 

cold-blooded ” suddenly she blushed — ‘‘No, I 

know that you are not. I told papa last night 
about what you had done, and that you were going 
to call. But he is still angry with you — though 
we all know now the true story about poor W alter. 
He said that you should never enter the house, 
and ordered me not to see you. There was — well, 
lots of things ; but I told him that if I should happen 
to meet you, and you should speak to me, that I 
would answer you. He was very, very angry. 
Mama spent last night with me, and I told her 
everything. She said that I was very wrong to 
have made the promise I did, but that I could 
see you once, and explain to you the circumstances, 
and ask you to release me. She knows that I 
expected to see you this morning. Now I have 
told you everything, and I want you to give me 
back my word.” 

I did not answer immediately. A lizard came 


140 


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out of some crevice and looked at us then hurried 
away again. “I wonder what those things live 
on,” I said, finally, “stones?” 

Mary laughed. “Don’t change the subject that 
way, answer me.” 

I looked at the knob of my cane for a moment, 
then I looked at her. Her eyes met mine frankly 
for an instant, then she looked down. Her breast 
began to heave slightly. “Answer me,” she re- 
peated, but her voice was no longer so assured. I 
also looked downwards as I said, “Then the answer 
is. No.” 

She recovered herself instantly. “Now don’t 
be foolish; you know that to see me will do no 
good.” 

“Probably not,” I answered, “but I would not 
give up my remaining twenty-three hours for any- 
thing in the world. I cannot force you, of course, 
but I will not release you from your promise.” 

“But you are forcing me. I do not like you at 
all, and yet you want to make me spend a miserable 
month just because in a moment of excitement 
I gave you my word.” 

“I am sorry that it will be miserable; I know 
that somehow I always manage to show you my 
worst side, but in this I cannot give in.” 

“Then you mean, seriously, after what I have 
told you, to say that you are going to force your 
company on me an hour each day?” 

“You do not put it very pleasantly,” I answered. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


141 


and in spite of myself my voice had an angry ring, 
“but that is the substance of it.’^ 

“Very well, then, I have given you my word 
and I will keep it; but if you think that you will 
enjoy my company you will find yourself very much 
mistaken. Now, what time is it?” 

I looked at my watch: “Twenty-three minutes 
to eleven,” I said. 

“Then I will stay here until twenty-three minutes 
to twelve. Now begin.” 

I started to slip my watch back into my pocket, 
but she stopped me. “No, leave it out,” she 
commanded, “so that we can see how the time 
is passing.” 

Obediently I unfastened my watch and laid it 
on the gravestone. The position was sufficiently 
embarrassing, though I was conscious of the humor 
of it, and in comparison to what I had feared it 
was happiness. I waited a moment to see if Mary 
would say anything, but she merely sat up stiffly 
and gazed fixedly at the opposite side of the arbor. 
“Is there any particular subject you would like 
to converse on?” I asked, finally. 

“I leave it entirely to you,” she answered. 

I looked around for an instant in search of an 
idea — and found one under me. It gave me a 
certain malicious pleasure. ^What do you say 
to George, then,” I asked, suddenly. 

The question took Mary by surprise. She looked 
at me with widely-opened eyes. “George?” she 
questioned, “what George do you mean?” 


142 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


^‘Just George. I don’t know his last name, but 
he is the gentleman over whose remains we are 
at present seated.” 

Mary rose from her seat hurriedly. “It is cold 
and damp in here,” she said, “let’s go outside.” 

I got up also, and as I did so a rhyme occurred 
to me which suited the occasion, so I repeated it 
to her as we walked out: 

She found the grave-stone 
Cold and damp, 

So quickly arose 
And did decamp. 

“You are a goose,” she said; then she relapsed 
into frigidity again. 

For the next half hour we wandered around 
reading the inscriptions, and I exerted myself to 
be disagreeable; then I remembered that I had 
left my watch on the grave-stone, and we returned 
to the arbor again. I found it where I had left 
it, and the time showed that we still had twenty 
minutes left. As I put my watch in my pocket 
Mary turned to me suddenly: “This is an utterly 
impossible position,” she said, “I cannot meet you 
like this again, and it is hopeless to think 
of receiving you at the house.” Then she gave 
me one of her quick smiles, and looked up to me 
with eyes the power of which she knew full well: 
“Now give me back my promise, won’t you? and 
I will forgive you for to-day and will like you again.” 

“Tell me,” I answered, “is there not somebody 
in town whom we both know where we could meet 


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accidently — there is one place I know of — a placo 
where they sell flowers — there is an old lady, and 
she has snow-white hair which she wears in curls 
which hang down on both sides of her face ” 

^^Oh, I know whom you mean, Mrs. Gresham, but — 

“She is a great friend of mine, and she knows 
you, too; she used to send you anonymous violets 
for me when I was here last time.’’ 

Mary looked at me quickly, and there was a 
light in her eyes that I had not seen since that day 
on the beach months before. “Were you the 
person who sent me those? Oh, how stupid I 
have been. I thought — I thought that they were 
from someone else. A big bunch came one day 
when I was sick, and I thanked him for them after- 
wards, and he let me believe that he had sent them. 
I’ll forgive you for lots of other things now.” 

“What! other things! — are there other things?” 

“Lots and lots; but I won’t think of them now 
— I might go to Mrs. Gresham’s to-morrow about 
nine, as I have to get some flowers for the evening.” 

“Then I will see you there. And, oh, did your 
horse come back?” 

“Yes, he was waiting at the stable door when 
we got home. And it is the strangest thing how 
my bridle broke; in the same place on both sides; 
right next to the bit. I cannot understand how 
it happened, as it was made of the best steel. Do 
you remember, you warned me against it. When 
I ride again I will use a double rein. I am frightened 
even now when I think of what would have happened 


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if you had not been near me at the time. Forgive 
me the disagreeable things that I have said this 
morning. And now good-by. Don’t go to the 
car with me.” She gave me her hand for an instant 
and was gone. 

I sat down again on top of George and thought. 
Luck was running so strongly my way that I began 
to feel frightened. But there was still one dark 
shadow in the foreground, and until it was passed 
I could not feel safe, for what would Mary do if 
she ever learned that I was responsible for the 
breaking of her bridle. 

I sat on the grave until dinner time, and then 
walked home. During the afternoon I wrote, as 
well as I could remember, an account of the events 
of the day. I had no definite plan in doing so, 
except that it might help me to understand Mary, 
and this diary I continued every day thereafter 
until the end. It is from it that I am writing this 
account. 

At nine the next morning I was at Mrs. Gresham’s. 
Mary had not arrived. Mrs. Gresham was also 
absent, and only a little negro boy was in charge. 
I told him that I would wait in the conservatory. 
It was nearly half after nine before Mary joined 
me. I had made up my mind during the night 
on the line of conduct that I would pursue, and 
now, as she entered, I greeted her as if her coming 
was the most natural thing in the world, and began 
talking flowers. She followed my lead instantly, 
and for the half hour we were alone together a 


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145 


listener might have taken us for a pair of amateur 
botanists. She was looking beautiful this morning, 
and I remember that she wore a light grey dress 
without any visible signs of ornamentation, and 
which fitted her perfectly. She seemed to have 
recovered entirely from the effects of her last ride. 
Towards ten Mrs. Gresham appeared, and Mary 
immediately devoted herself to the serious task that 
had, brought her there. She was very particular 
in her selections, and half an hour more passed 
before she had completed her purchases. We kept 
up, during the while, a half conversation, and I 
asked Mary when she thought of riding again. 
That it seemed to me that I remembered her drop- 
ping her whip just as I helped her off her horse, 
and that I thought that if we rode there the next 
morning that we might find it. That before 
breakfast would be a good time to go, say at six 
o’clock. Between intervals of examining some 
different varieties of roses she answered that she 
would go if she felt well enough, and that if she 
did not she would send me a note later in the day. 
I said that I would be on the beach until seven 
and then asked her if she would not let me send 
her a new bridle. She replied that I could select 
one for her if I would promise to send the bill with 
it. I protested against this, for, though I did not 
say so, I felt that as I had ruined her bridle it was 
only my duty to get her a new one, but, as I could 
not explain this to her, I was compelled at last to 
agree to do as she said. 


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At the gate we separated, and I went to the 
gymnasium and exercised until I was tired out, 
for it was the only way that I could keep my spirits 
within reasonable bounds. From the gymnasium 
I went to Howland’s. He was just going to lunch, 
so I accepted his invitation to join him. He con- 
gratulated me on my heroic action of the previous 
Saturday, and from hirn I learned that the story 
of my ride was all over town, and that for the first 
time since the poker game my stock had risen above 
zero. I noticed this myself, as we walked out of 
the restaurant, in the different way that the men 
greeted me. I had not been down town since 
the previous Friday. Then, while they had all sa- 
luted me, there had been more or less constraint 
about it: now it was spontaneous. I spent a 
few minutes chatting with them, then went to a 
saddler’s and selected Mary a new bridle. The 
remainder of the afternoon and evening I spent 
in my room writing. 

I had been on the beach about half an hour 
the next morning riding slowly up and down to 
the westward of Tremont street before Mary 
joined me. She was dressed in her riding suit, 
except the hat, and in place of which she wore 
a little steamer cap which was decidedly becoming. 
“My horse don’t like his new bridle at all,” she said, 
as she rode up, “he thinks that it is too heavy.” 

“It will hold him, anyhow,” I answered, and I 
wheeled Queen around and continued westward 


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147 


by her side. ‘‘Does it feel strange to be on horse- 
back again?” 

“No, I am surprised; I was almost afraid to 
mount this morning; but now it seems as if last 
Saturday was only a dream.” 

We rode along rapidly for the next few minutes, 
for the morning was rather chilly, only exchanging 
an occasional word. Mary^s horse was a pacer 
and kept up with Queen easily. As we neared 
the sand hill Mary’s breathing became quicker, as 
I could see by the movement of her breast, and she 
stopped speaking entirely. We mounted the sand 
hill, and paused a moment on the top. We looked 
down, and there, just on the other side, lay her 
whip, half buried in the sand. We rode down 
into the hollow, and I dismounted and handed 
Mary her whip. “Shall we rest here awhile?” 
I asked. 

“I expect we had better,” she answered, “I am 
beginning to feel a little tired.” 

I helped her to dismount, and we looked around 
for a seat. There was a half buried trunk of a 
tree, which had been cast up by the waves years 
before, and on this she sat down, while I fastened 
her horse to a stunted salt cedar which grew a 
few yards off. Queen I left untied. Mary noticed 
this, and said, as I took my seat beside her, “Will 
not your horse run away?” 

“Queen? run away? never: Look,” and I called 
to her. She came instantly, and, bending her head. 


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tried to reach my pocket. I put my arm around 
her neck, and pressed her to me, while with my 
other hand I took a lump of sugar from my pocket 
and fed her. Then I released her and turned to 
Mary. ‘‘You see,” I said, “she is a woman, and 
therefore likes sweet things.” 

“How wise you are,” Mary answered, and her 
voice was slightly sarcastic, “and you think you 
understand women, do you?” 

“Not in the least,” I replied quickly. “If I 
lived a million years I could never pass a certain 
point. I can tell generally whether they are honest 
or dishonest, or true or false, or bright or silly, but 
when it comes to the distinctly woman part of 
them I give up; even those I have known most 
intimately were constantly springing surprises on 
me. Do you think that I imagine that I under- 
stand you?” 

Mary laughed: “If you did you would be wiser 
than I am, for I have found that I don’t even un- 
derstand myself. But what a beautiful horse you 
have; and is it true that you really rode it all the 
way from New Orleans?” 

“Yes, it is true Do you believe in fate?” 

“Fate! I hardly know; sometimes.” 

“It is a thing that puzzles me. Of course I do 
not believe in any of the religions — the mythology 
of the Christians is something too unutterably 
silly for anyone with even a partial education 
to put any faith in — but sometimes it seems to 
me that there is some great force pervading the 


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149 


universe which has an influence on our actions — 
though, after all, it may be merely luck.” 

Mary did not answer me immediately ; but amused 
herself by drawing figures on the sand with the end 
of her riding whip: when she did it was with a half 
laugh. “I hope that it is not luck,” she said, “but 
that it is a very good fate, and that it has me espe- 
cially in its charge, for I know that I am not guid- 
ing myself now.” She stopped and continued her 
drawing on the sand. I watched her for a minute 
or two, but the figures she traced were meaningless 
to me. Presently she got up. “Let us start 
home,” she said, “I am rested now.” We mounted 
our horses and rode back slowly, talking but little 
on the way. The beach was absolutely deserted. 
At Thirtieth street we separated, after making an 
engagement for the following morning, I turning 
towards town, and she continuing along the beach. 
I said that I wished to pass Mrs. Gresham ^s. It 
was a transparent fiction, but she accepted it without 
comment. 


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IX. 

The hours now began to go quickly. No further 
reference was made to our peculiar compact. We 
met every morning on the beach. The weather 
was perfect. Sometimes we rode the whole morning 
hour without stopping, and sometimes we would 
spend the hour seated on the fallen tree hidden 
in our nook among the sand hills. I could not tell 
by Mary’s manner whether I was progressing or 
not. There was only one thing that I could con- 
strue in my favor; whereas, at first, there were 
frequently long pauses in our conversations, now 
the time never seemed long enough for us to tell 
all that we had to say. We discussed every con- 
ceivable subject, except the one nearest to my heart. 
I grew more desperately in love every day. I lived 
only in that one hour with her. Miss Wallace had 
almost passed from my thoughts. I had called 
on her only once since our rides began. We had 
met absolutely no one whom we knew. 

Two weeks had passed, and it was the morning 
of Easter Sunday. We met early, and Mary told 
me that she would not be able to ride the next 
day, but would meet me at ten o’clock on the Avenue 
L street car line at the east end of the beach; one 
of the most quiet spots in town. We rode but a 
short distance this morning, and separated early, 
to see each other again at church, though, of course, 
without speaking. 


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151 


When I reached the Episcopal church, a little 
after eleven, it was crowded to the doors, so I did 
not go in. By a tacit convention everybody seemed 
to have chosen it as their place of worship this morn- 
ing. I strolled around until twelve, and then 
returned to await the exit of the people. A number 
of the young men of the town were gathered around 
the church door dressed in their new spring suits 
and straw hats. I joined one of the groups, in 
which was Howland, and we spent the intervening 
time gossiping. Howland and I had been drawing 
together again during the past two weeks. It 
was nearly one before the worshipers, principally 
women decked in every variety of headgear, began 
pouring out. In the middle of the throng I saw 
Mary and Ewing. As they passed me she bowed, 
and Ewing also raised his hat, though with by no 
means a pleasant expression. A little later Miss 
Wallace came out, and Howland and I joined her. I 
walked with them to the corner, and Miss Wallace 
invited me to a card party at her house the next 
night. 

When I awoke Monday morning it was still dark. 
I looked out of the window and saw that it was 
raining. I got up and took my bath and then 
went to bed again. The weather depressed me. 
We were now in the first days of April. I did not 
get up again until seven, and then dressed slowly, 
and afterwards lingered a long time over breakfast. 
At nine the rain changed to a light drizzle, and a 
cold, damp wind from the north sprang up, though 


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the sky still remained a dull leaden gray. It was 
a sudden relapse into winter. I put on a rough 
coat with a high collar and a heavy pair of shoes 
and, with the hai I had used on my ride from New 
Orleans, started out at half past nine to keep my 
engagement with Mary. I hardly expected her 
to come out on such a day, but of course would 
take no chances. It was rather less than a mile 
to the end of the car line, so I walked to keep down 
my restlessness. There was, at the end, an old 
abandoned pavilion, which, before the jetties had 
ruined the east end, had been used as a beer-garden. 
Under the lee of this I waited, stepping out from 
time to time, as I heard the rattle of the cars, to 
look for Mary. It was nearly half past ten before 
she came, so bundled up in her water-proof as to 
be almost unrecognizable. I helped her off the 
car, and as soon as I looked at her I saw that some- 
thing had happened. Her face w’^as without a 
sign of color, and all her vivacity was gone. I took 
her arm, for the wind was blowing strongly, and led 
her to the sheltered place where I had been waiting 
for her.' The gulf was high, and was beating against 
the beach with a dull, muffled roar. I waited 
for her to begin, but she only leaned against the 
wall and looked seaward. Gradually I fell in with 
her mood, and the minutes passed in silence. Once 
or twice she looked at me, and her face wore an 
expression that I had never seen on it before, and 
which at the time I did not understand. It seemed 
to me to- be more womanly. Presently from the 


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153 


distance came the sound of the electric car, and 
then she spoke: “I must go back on this,” she 
said, “I only came to keep my engagement. I 
will explain to you sometime. Don’t ask me 
anything now.” 

I made some reply, and then she took my arm, 
and we walked back to the car track. The drizzle 
had stopped, and the wind was clearing the sky. 
Just as I helped her on the car there came a rift 
in the clouds, and a faint gleam of sunshine broke 
through. She turned as the car started and smiled 
good-by, and her smile seemed to have a promise 
in it. 

During the course of the day I received a 
note from Miss Wallace asking me to bring a Miss 
Peters, a sort of general utility girl, to her house 
that night, and saying that she had already made 
the engagement for me. It was very thoughtful 
of her, as I had been nowhere since the poker game, 
and my first public appearance in society would 
be sure to excite comment, and, personally, I would 
not have asked any of my former acquaintances 
for fear of a refusal. 

The time mentioned was eight o’clock, and when 
I arrived there a few minutes after that hour with 
Miss Peters, I found most of the guests already 
assembled. Mary was there, the center of a little 
group, and seemed to be in the highest spirits. 
Ewing, to my surprise, was not present. The game 
we were to play was progressive euchre. It began 
shortly after my arrival, and I remember that I 


154 


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started at the head table where the drawing of 
the numbers had also placed Howland and Miss 
Wallace. Howland had superintended the drawing, 
so I do not suppose that his being there was al- 
together luck. Mary was several tables lower 
down. The game progressed as such games usually 
do. I won twice, and then was sent down to the 
bottom table. I felt but little interest in it; my 
thoughts were centered on Mary, and I tried to 
watch her without seeming to do so. 

The last round was being played before I caught 
up with her, and by the rule of the game she became 
my partner. She greeted me as she would have 
greeted any other acquaintance, and told me that 
we must surely win the hand as it would give her 
the first prize. I forget now who our opponents 
were. We won very easily, and, as the bell rang 
to show that the game was over, the usual hum of 
conversation arose, and most of the players left 
their seats to compare score cards, and to see who 
were the winners. Mary arose with the others, 
and, as she passed me, said, “Be sure to see me 
before you go,” then, with a sudden smile, added, 
“the cat is out of the bag.” The next moment 
she was in the midst of the crowd triumphantly 
showing her score card. 

“The cat is out of the bag,” there was no mistaking 
what she meant. Then I remembered that during 
the game, while at one of the tables, her sister 
Ellen had been seated at my left, and that she 
had seemed even more frigid than usual. I had 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


155 


hardly thought of it- at the time, as war had long 
been declared between us, and we never recognized 
each other when we met. 

Supper was over, and the people were saying 
good night, before Mary called me to her side with 
a glance. She dropped her handkerchief as I 
approached, and, as I stooped to pick it up, said: 
“I will ride to-morrow early if it don^t rain, and 
if it does I will buy some flowers.” Then she 
said, ‘‘Thank you,” with a society-girl air, as I 
handed her her handkerchief, and walked over to 
where Miss Wallace was standing. Howland passed 
just then, and I invited him to ride home with me. 
He accepted, and I got my hat and overcoat, and 
hunted up Miss Peters to take her home. 

When I joined Howland again in the carriage, after 
seeing Miss Peters safely in her house, I found that 
he had already lighted his cigar, and was leaning 
back in the seat smoking vigorously. As soon 
as I entered he asked with great earnestness, “Gra- 
ham, would you like to see an ass, a blind, a stupidly 
blind unmitigated ass?” 

“Oh, I^m not particularly curious,” I answered, 
“but I will light a match if you wish.” 

“To think that this thing has been going on since 
last Christmas,” he continued, without noticing 
my remark, “since last June, by Jove, and that I 
never noticed it. And I would not have noticed 
it now if Miss Wallace had not called my attention 
to it to-night. What an oyster you are.” 

I guessed instantly what he meant — Mary’s 


156 


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words had prepared me for anything — but I did 
not care to give myself away until I was certain, 
so I asked him as indifferently as I could to explain. 

“Graham, Graham, he continued, still without 
heeding me, “and to think that I have been madly 
jealous of you; that for two weeks past I have 
been gloating inwardly over how badly you would 
feel when you heard that Miss Wallace and I were 
engaged; that every time we have met lately I 
have been trying to lacerate your feelings by my 
covert remarks: oh, what an ass I have been. And 
now tell me the truth about yourself and Mary 
Andrews.” 

We talked until late into the night, or, rather, 
morning. It was a relief to me to talk about Mary 
with somebody. I told him everything — nearly. 
He had not much encouragement to give me. He 
had heard much less than I thought; only that 
Mary and I had been seen twice riding on the beach 
together in the morning; but that after Miss Wallace 
had spoken to him that night he had been watching 
me closely, and that I had given myself away a 
dozen times. 

“I wonder if Mr. Andrews has been told,” I 
asked, finally, as I was leaving. 

“I am pretty certain he has not,” Howland 
answered, “as he left yesterday morning to visit 
his sugar plantation, and what I have told you 
Miss Wallace only heard to-day, and if it was being 
discussed generally I would certainly have heard 
it myself down town; but you know Galveston, and 


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157 


you can count on having everybody gossiping about 
you before the week is over; my advice is not to 
delay, but to make hay while the sun shines.” 

It was so near morning when I got home that 
I did not think it worth while to go to bed, but, 
after taking a bath, put on my riding suit, and read 
until daylight. It came in about half an hour, and 
I went down stairs and saddled Queen. I had 
already started towards the beach when I changed 
my mind and decided to wait for Mary. I rode 
around the block once or twice, until I saw her 
horse brought around to the side gate, when I waited 
on the corner until she came out. As soon as she 
reached the side-walk I rode up, and dismounting, 
assisted her into the saddle. She did not seem 
at all surprised to see me, and after we had started, 
said, was sure that you would wait for me this 
morning.” 

^‘It is a case of mental telepathy,” I answered, 
^‘I had not thought of waiting until after I had 
started for the beach. You must have been just 
awakening when I changed my mind.” 

^^Hardly,” she answered, ‘‘as I was awake hours 
and hours this morning before I got up.” 

Then I told her how I had spent the night, though 
I did not tell her that she had been the subject of 
conversation. 

We rode rather slowly along Tremont street, but 
when we reached the beach we let our horses out 
and did not stop until we reached the sand hills. 
It was a beautiful morning, and the sun was just 


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rising when we dismounted. Mary took her favorite 
seat on a branch of the old tree which rose a few 
feet from the ground, and I stood beside her trying 
to decide, as I often did, whether her eyes were 
blue or gray. I never could, as they were not 
always the same color, changing from light to dark 
with her varying moods. Somehow she reminded 
me of Undine — before her soul came to spoil her. 
She had been my earliest sweetheart, and I had 
always hated the knight. But the coming of her 
soul would not ruin Mary — and it seemed to me 
that it had drawn nearer during the last two days. 
She was very silent this morning, and after a moment 
or two I walked over to Queen, and began feeding 
her with some sweet crackers that I had brought 
with me. I was teaching her to catch them in 
her mouth as I tossed them to her, and she was 
not yet very skillful. I grew so interested in this 
that I almost forgot Mary, until she called me to 
her side. I sat down on the trunk of the tree, a 
little below her, and waited. I thought at first 
that she was merely jealous of my attentions to 
Queen, for she always liked to occupy the center 
of the stage; but when I looked at her more closely, 
I saw that she had grown serious. She hesitated 
several times before she spoke, but at last she said, 
‘^Do you think it is wrong for a girl to hate her 
sister?’^ 

“It depends a good deal on the sister,” I answered. 
“I know how I would feel in your case.” 

“It is years since Ellen and I have been intimate,” 


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159 


she continued, ^‘but now I can never forgive her. 
Would you believe it? she was on the same street 
car that 1 was on yesterday morning. She followed 
me from the house, but I was thinking of other 
things and did not notice her — not that it would 
have made any difference in my actions if I had. 
When I came home I found her just going into 
mama^s room. We entered almost at the same 

moment ” here Mary gave a little laugh of 

inward amusement — ‘‘what followed was very 
funny. Ellen started to denounce me dramatically ; 
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘do you know* where Mary 
has been?’ ‘No;’ mama answered, ‘but I think that 
I can guess.’ ‘You cannot,’ Ellen exclaimed, ‘but 

I can tell you; she has been ’ well I wont repeat 

exactly what she said; but she should never have 
said it, and it is that, as much as her playing the 
spy, that makes me feel that I can never forgive 
her — then mama answered, ‘Yes, Ellen, I know 
everything that Mary has done, and she has had 
my permission.’ This disconcerted Ellen for a 
moment, but presently she began again, and said 
that if mama would do nothing that she would 
write to father. There were lots of other things 
said — it seems that one of the men had told Ellen 
the day before that he had seen us out riding- to- 
gether, which was the reason that she had followed 
me — and finally we had an awful quarrel, and Ellen 
and I are never to speak to each other again.” 

Mary paused a moment, and, when she re- 
commenced, her mood had changed. “I have been 


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very wrong, though — everything has been wrong — 
but then my position has been so difficult. If you 
had ever tried to take the least advantage of it — 
do you know that two or three times I have deliber- 
ately tried to lead you on so that I could have an 
excuse to quarrel with you?’^ 

I laughed, for just then Howland^s confession 
of the night before occurred to me, and I thought 
how blissfully I had been moving along utterly 
unconscious of the various plots of which I had 
been the object — some special providence must 
surely have been guiding me, or I would have 
stranded on one of the many shoals. I told Mary 
something of this, and she agreed with me about 
the providence part. 

“You cannot imagine the fire of criticism you 
have been under at our home,” she said. “First, 
there was the public part. Hardly a day passed 
that my father or Ellen did not have something 
to say against you. My father really believes 
that you have not a redeeming trait. And there 
was another criticism of you which was even harder, 
though it wasn’t — exactly — unfriendly. I have 
never told you how, after the first Sunday, I 
repeated all our conversation to mama, and that, 
every time we have ^et since then, I have con- 
fided everything to her. Mama likes you; why, 
I don’t know; but she does, and she generally takes 
your part, while I act as the severe critic; if you 
had ever done anything wrong ” she paused 


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161 


abruptly, and then asked after an interval; “What 
hour is this?” 

“The seventeenth,” I answered. 

“Seven and seven make fourteen — twenty-four. 
To-day is Tuesday — are you going to Miss Morgan's 
to-night?” 

I answered that I had not been invited. 

“Will you go if I get you an invitation?” 

“Certainly,” I answered. 

“Then I will see you there. And now let's ride 
home slowly as I must rest for to-night.” 

My invitation to Miss Morgan's came during 
the morning — I think that I have mentioned her 
as a stupid girl who entertained a great deal — and 
I was one of the first of her guests to arrive. I 
waited in the dressing-room until the programs 
were given out, when I went down stairs. Mary, 
as usual, was surrounded by men. When I reached 
her side, and finally secured her program, I found 
that every dance was taken. It was plainly inten- 
tional, as she could easily have saved me a dance 
if she had wished to. My hopes had risen so high 
since morning, that now the reaction was correspond- 
ingly deep. I handed her back the program without 
a word, and turned and left her. She did not look 
at me, but continued chatting with the other men. 
A week or so before — until the last two days — I 
might have tried to answer her in kind, and have 
ignored her for the rest of the evening; but now 
my feelings had grown too deep for me to disguise 


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them, so I left the room and the house without a 
word to anyone. It was still not much after nine, 
and the night was warm. My hackman had driven 
away. 

As I hesitated which way to turn my demon 
came beside me and led my steps towards the nearest 
bar-room. I entered and bought a bottle of whiskey 
and a bunch of cigars, and with them returned to 
my room. I placed them on my table and lit my 
lamp. My knife had a cork-screw attachment, 
and with this I opened the bottle, and then filled 
a tumbler half way to the brim with the whiskey. 
Then I cut off the end of a cigar, and laid it beside 
the glass. I sat down, and for two long hours 
did not move. For two long hours I sat there, 
while the mosquitoes sung around me, and fought 
the last battle of my life with the demon of drink ; 
then I got up, and, taking the cigars and whiskey, 
walked over to the washstand and threw them 
into the slop-bucket. Then, dressed as I was, I 
left the house, and spent the remainder of the night 
wandering around town. It was nearly daylight 
when I returned home, absolutely exhausted, but 
once more at peace with myself. I went to bed 
and slept for many hours. It was nearly evening 
when I awoke. I went down town and got some 
dinner and then returned to my room. Mary 
had led up to my downfall so skillfully that it had 
come upon me when I was least prepared; but I 
had met the crisis, and passed it, and now I knew 
that I would never drink again. A sort of numbness 


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163 


had come over my feelings, and I no longer felt 
any inclination to renew the struggle. And my 
feelings themselves had undergone a change. Mary^s 
last act had been such a useless bit of cruelty that 
I could not pardon her for it. A girl who could 
wantonly insult a man — one, even as much to 
blame as I was — could not be worth the winning. I 
would see her once more: on the last day, Tuesday) 
but beyond that I made no plans. Still, I could 
feel that a change was in the air, and that night, 
almost involuntarily, I began arranging my papers 
— saving some and burning many. The next day 
I continued my preparations. I had gathered 
a great quantity of stuff, and to pack this involved 
much labor. I did not go out all day. 

Friday morning, very early, I took a short, fast 
ride on the beach, returning before seven. Shortly 
after breakfast I received a visit from Howland. 
I was in my room again finishing my packing. I was 
surprised to see him, and still more surprised when 
he told me the object of his call. There was to 
be a subcription dance that night at the Garten 
Verein, to be given by the men, and he wished me 
not only to subscribe, but to also go there and 
to take Miss Wallace. I declined, explaining that I 
was about to leave town, and that I had decided 
to go to no more entertainments. But he would 
accept no excuse. My name was already down 
on the list as Miss Wallace's escort, and had been 
there since the day before. He had placed it 
there himself when he found that his own engage- 


164 


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ments would not permit him to take her. Every- 
body who had seen the list knew that I was go- 
ing with her, and it would place her in a very 
embarrassing position if I should now refuse. If 
it had been anybody else I would not have hesitated, 
but she had been so steadily my friend that I could 
not well decline to put myself to some inconvenience 
for her sake, and so I reluctantly consented. How- 
land then proposed that we should share a hack 
together — a prevailing custom in Galveston to 
save expense — and to this I readily agreed. He 
would get the hack, he said, and call for me about 
half past eight. 

By five that afternoon I had everything packed, 
except the few articles that I would need for the 
remaining days of my stay in Galveston, and I 
decided to visit the cemetery again, and say good- 
by to my friend George. His tomb had not changed, 
though the grass around it was greener. I stayed 
with him, thinking, until the lengthening shadows 
told me that evening had come, when I returned 
to my boarding house, and, after dining, dressed 
for the dance. It was to be an informal affair, so, 
as the night was very warm, I put on a light flannel 
suit that I had left out of my trunk for the purpose. 
Howland was rather late in arriving, and I was 
beginning to congratulate myself that I might 
escape after all, when, through the open window 
by which I was sitting, I saw the carriage drive 
up. I picked up my hat and went down stairs, 
meeting Howland at the gate. We walked to the 


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165 


hack together and I stepped in first. He followed 
me closely, and shut the door. It was quite dark 
inside, and I was about to take the rear seat when 
I saw a woman's dress. I apologized, though 
1 could not recognize who it was, and sat down 
in front. The carriage started. As. my eyes grew 
more accustomed to the darkness I saw that the 
other seat was also occupied, and that the dress 
I had first seen belonged to Miss Wallace. “How is 
this," I asked, “I thought you were going with 
me to-night?" 

“The program has been changed," she answered, 
while from the other dress came a low laugh. I 
sank back in my seat, for once in my life, at least, 
absolutely incapable of either speech or action — 
for the other dress belonged to Mary. I don't 
remember anything very distinctly, now, until I 
found myself walking along the shaded path in 
the Garten Verein which led to the dancing pavilion 
with her beside me. I had to keep turning every 
moment to assure myself that she was really real. 
She was dressed all in white, as on the day I had 
first seen her, and it brought the whole scene vividly 
back to my mind. I did not try to think how it 
had happened — I could not have thought if I had 
tried — sufficient it was that she was with me. The 
events of the past three days passed from my mind 
— the present moment only was real. 

We had almost reached the pavilion when I 
noticed, as she slowly swung her fan, that her 
program was attached to it. There had been a 


166 


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box of them in the carriage with Howland, but 
I had not thought af taking one. It caused me 
a moment’s bitterness, but I threw the feeling 
from me: nothing should spoil to-night if I could 
help it. I took her program from her. ‘‘Can I 
write my name down now?” I asked. 

“If you want,” she answered, smiling. 

I took the little pencil which was attached to 
the card, and, turning the program sideways, 
wrote my name so as to cover both of the interior 
pages on which the names of the dances were printed. 
I expected each instant that she would stop me, 
but she did not. I handed her back her fan and 
program, but she asked me to keep them, so I 
detached the latter and put it in my pocket. What 
it meant I did not know, but it was not for me 
to complain. 

The musicians were tuning up as we enter- 
ed the pavilion. Howland and Miss Wallace were 
already there. We took a seat in front of one 
of the windows through which a warm breeze 
was blowing. A number of men came up to ask 
for dances, but to one and all Mary made the same 
reply — that her program was already full. 

The first piece was a two-step, and, as the music 
started, Mary and I took our places on the floor. 
I put my arm around her, and so we stood for a 
moment or two while waiting to catch the time. 
As I touched her hand my whole body thrilled 
with excitement: I longed to press her to me; it 


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167 


was almost a relief when the right note came and 
we glided on the floor. 

Even now this dance seems to me like a dream. 
I was conscious of but one thing — that she was in 
my arms. Once, as we were passing one of the 
doors, we both happened to look up at the same 
time. There stood Ellen, glaring at us with vindic- 
tive eyes. I gave Mary’s hand the slightest pres- 
sure, and she pressed mine in return. 

Dance after dance followed. Gradually I could 
feel that we were creating a sensation. The quarrel 
of the family with me had been notorious, and but 
few knew of the reconciliation which had taken 
place between Mary and myself. More than once, 
as some of the other dancers passed us, I could 
catch parts of whispered comments, and some of 
them were not favorable: to dance every dance 
with the same man was more than the strict little 
society of Galveston could allow. But what Gal- 
veston could or could not allow was a matter of 
perfect indifference to me, and Mary seemed un- 
conscious of the attention she was attracting. 

But I was mistaken in this, for as we left the 
pavilion, after the last dance before supper, she 
whispered to me in a voice half frightened, half 
laughing, ‘T have taken my life in my hands to- 
night : what, oh, what,will happen to-morrow.” She 
imagined as little as I did then of what was to 
happen the next day. 

The supper was to be served on the wide verandas 


168 


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of the club-house, and we took our seats at one 
of the little tables furthest removed from the 
crowd. There we were presently joined by How- 
land and Miss Wallace. We had nearly finished, 
when Howland, who had been toying abstractedly 
with his wine glass, turned to me suddenly and 
said, “I supose that the debate, a la Persian, is now 
ended.” 

At first I did not understand him ; then I remem- 
bered the night nearly five months back when 
we four had last sat together at the same table. 
How wonderfully things had changed since then. 
It made me serious instantly. A moment passed 
before I answered him. Then I said slowly, ^‘Yes. 
Howland, forever.” 

Mary raised her eyes to mine, and once more 
I saw the girl who had spoken to me on the beach 
that June day, and who had changed the current 
of my life. 

The supper ended. The girls left us for a moment, 
and Howland lit a cigar. I watched him curiously 
as he luxuriously filled his lungs with smoke, and 
then slowly puffed it out in little wreaths, and was 
surprised to find that my desire for tobacco had 
left me entirely, and that I rather pitied him than 
otherwise. We did not speak, and presently the 
girls rejoined us. Mary and I left the club-house 
and strolled out under the trees. It was a beautiful 
night; the clouds of the early evening had passed 
away, and the moon was shining brightly. We 
turned from the dancing pavilion, and towards 


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169 


the quietest spot of the garden. In a recess formed 
by the thick vines of a honeysuckle we found a 
bench, and here sat down. I felt that the crisis 
had arrived. I turned to Mary and said: ^Tell 
me, now, what does this mean?” 

She withdrew a little way from me, Not to-night,” 
she answered, “to-night I don’t want to think — 
to-morrow I will tell you everything.” 

But I knew that to-morrow would be another 
day — that only the present moment was mine. 
I told her this; but she only repeated after me, “Yes, 
to-morrow will be another day.” 

Just then the faint sound of a bell was borne 
to our ears by the wind, then a second and a third; 
I counted, the city clock was striking twelve, and 
another day had come. 

“Do you hear, Mary,” I said, “to-day has passed 
and it is to-morrow: now tell me everything.” 

Her breath began to come quickly, and she 
turned her face from mine, “No, not to-night,” 
she answered. “Don’t ask me to-night; in the 
morning early — as early as you wish, we will ride 
to the sand hills together; but to-night I am in a 
dream.” 

But I had passed the limit of my self-control. 
The tension I had been under for the last three 
days had been too great — the hope of Tuesday 
morning — the despair of Tuesday night — my struggle 
with myself : then the three days of dull self-control, 
and now the dawming of hope again — I could not 
wait. The new day had already begun, and before 


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the darkness passed I would have an answer from 
Mary. I took her hand in mine and drew her 
towards me. I put my arm around her waist. 
She did not resist, though she did not yield. A 
moment passed, then she turned towards me and 
looked into my face. I saw that her eyes were 
filled with tears. In that instant the whole charac- 
ter of my love changed. The passion seemed to 
die out, and in its place there came an affection 
so deep, so overwhelming, that I felt that I had 
never before even dreamed of the true meaning of the 
word love. Mayhap the change showed in my 
eyes, for suddenly Mary put her arms around my 
neck, and, leaning forward, rested her head on 
my shoulder. For a moment I became so weak 
that I could hardly support her. Then the feeling 
passed and all my blood rushed to my heart and 
it felt as if it would burst. I drew her gently 
towards me and pressed her to my breast, and 
kissed her on the forehead and on the eyes and 
on the lips. A minute passed in silence. Now 
that my happiness had come to me I could not 
realize it. Each second I expected to see her 
fade away and vanish. 

It was the commonplace, as usual, which broke 
the spell. There came the sound of steps 
crushing the gravel path which led to our seat. 
Mary straightened up suddenly and started to 
her feet, then sank down again with a half guilty 
laugh. I caught her hand and held it while we 
waited with beating hearts for the arrival of the 


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171 


intruders. They passed within a few yards of 
us, but did not turn — they were Ewing and Miss 
Morgan. He must have come very late for I had 
not seen him inside of the pavilion. I had forgotten 
his existence. Now I remembered everything. 
I turned to Mary. She was leaning back in her 
seat nervously fumbling with the buckle of her 
belt. A sort of cloud passed across my brain. I 
wanted to speak, but could not. I must have pressed 
the hand which I was holding roughly, for she 
gave a little cry and drew it away. It brought 
me to myself instantly. I slipped from my seat 
and knelt before her, and, taking her hand again 
in mine, kissed it. ‘‘Forgive me, dearest,” I said, 
“but Ewing — you are engaged to him?” 

She took my other hand in hers and drew me towards 
her. “Sit next to me,” she said, “I have so much 
to tell you; but first — are you sure that you love 
me?” 

I kissed her hand again. 

“Our engagement was formally broken Easter 
Sunday. It was broken once before in Janu- 
ary, but we renewed it again. But it was never 
a real engagement in — this way. I never was in 
the least in love with him. Can you under- 
stand? You don’t know what a selfish, worldly, 
cold-blooded girl I am. I was commencing my 
fourth season out — and people were beginning to 
speak of me as one of the old girls — and Mr. Ewing 
was rich — and— and — oh! I’m thoroughly con- 
temptible, but it was just vanity which made me 


172 


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accept him. But I never let him kiss me — believe 
me, I never let him kiss me. I have always hated 
kisses, and I never knew what a real kiss meant 
until that day on the beach when my horse ran 
away and you saved me. You thought that I 
had fainted, but I had not, though, at the moment, 
I lacked the strength to even open my eyes. But 
I felt you kiss me and heard your words and then — 
Oh! Graham, then I knew that I could never marry 
Mr. Ewing. And since then I have treated him 
as badly as I could. And Easter Sunday he gave 
me the opportunity that I wanted. Do you remem- 
ber that I bowed to you that day? Well, he told 
me that I should not, and we had a quarrel, and 
he broke the engagement — I wanted to make him 
break it so that I would be free from all responsi- 
bility.” 

I sank back in my seat; never before had I realized 
so clearly how little I understood women; she had 
made up her mind from the first to accept me. 

She seemed to read my thoughts for her next 
words were: “Don’t think that I was in love with 
you then — I wasn’t — I do not believe that I know 
what love is — I only knew that I could not marry 
Mr. Ewing. But I hated you, too. I was rather 
happy until you came into my life; then you un- 
settled everything. You seemed always to be 
forcing me against my will. I loved society, and 
to be rich, and admiration, and I could feel that 
you despised me for these things — and it was then 
that I began hating you.” Suddenly she looked 


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173 


at me and smiled. “Did I hurt you that night 
last summer when you told me good-by at the gate? 
I wanted to ; I was feeling such contempt for myself, 
and was so sorry that you were going away that 
I had to make somebody suffer. I regretted what 
I said a minute afterwards and ran to the gate 
to call you back, but when I got there you were 
gone. Did I hurt you much?’^ 

“No,” I answered, “some blows are so severe 
that for the time they deaden all your feelings, and 
when I did begin to think of your words they aroused 
me and it was then that I made up my mind to 
return here and win you if I could. It was what 
you told me that night at Miss Wallace's that nearly 
ruined me — the night of my return when you said 
that you were engaged to Ewing. But don’t let’s 
speak of it — it is past now, thank God — tell me 
instead when you first stopped hating me.” 

“I never really hated you, you know, the trouble 
was that I liked you too much. Oh, how can 
I explain! Do you remember years and years 
ago — a day that I spent at your house. I fell 
in love with you desperately then — you realized 
all my ideals. I had never seen any one so hand- 
some or so clever. I had often noticed you before, 
but you would never speak to me. Then you left 
and I went away to school, but still I thought 
of you constantly. It was when I came home that 
I began to forget you. I was grown up then and 
out in society and men were to be had in plenty. 
I was no longer the poor little school-girl whose 


174 


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love nobody cared for. But you still had a place 
in my mind, and on rainy days, sometimes, I would 
take you out and look at you. But you had ceased 
to be a real person, and had become only a memory. 
Then came that day last summer when I met you 
on the beach. For one moment, when I first saw 
you, I seemed to step back into the past. But it 
was only for a moment. Time had changed us 
both, and you made me feel that I had deteriorated, 
and it was then that I began to hate you, and to 
wish you hurt whenever I could. Oh, Graham, 
can it be that you really love me — myself — or is it 
not that you only love the girl that you imagine 
me to be?” 

“It is you, yourself, that I love, Mary, not the 
society girl. Miss Andrews. Since I looked into 
your eyes that day and saw you as you really were 
you have never been out of my thoughts. I believe 
that I loved you from that moment, though 
I did not know it at the time. My life before had 
been without an object and as reckless as a man’s 
life could be, but from that day it began to change. 
It was only when my love for you seemed hopeless 
that I fell back for a time into my old routine; 
but truely my pleasure in it had gone. And since 
one night on my trip from New Orleans I have 
done nothing in thought or deed that I could not 
tell you, for — ” I stopped abruptly: an ugly vision 
suddenly arose before me. I saw myself as I had 
appeared on the night before her horse had run 
away. I hesitated — should I tell her or should 


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175 


I not? but her head was resting on my shoulder, 
and at the moment I did not have the courage; 
instead, I drew her closely to me and kissed her on 
the lips. She suffered me to do it; but that was 
all. A moment or so passed. She knitted her 
fingers and pressed her hands together in her lap, 
then she raised her face to mine and said, “Graham, 
I am afraid. I don’t believe that I have the power 
to love as you do. In imagination I used to picture 
out love scenes, but they were all so different from 

this ” she laughed suddenly, “I suppose this is 

a love scene, isn’t it?” 

I laughed too, and kissed her again, and this time 
she yielded a little more ; “I suppose it is,” I answered. 

Just then the faint sound of a waltz came to 
us through the trees, and Mary started up. “We 
must go back,” she said. 

“No, not yet,” I protested, though I got up also, 
“we have settled nothing.” But she would not 
listen to me, and after a word or two more we 
returned to the pavilion and joined the dancers 
on the floor. After the dance we took a seat next 
to one of the windows where we were presently 
joined by Howland and Miss Wallace. Mary 
asked them if they were not ready to go home. 
Her mother was not very well, she said, and she had 
promised to return early. They were willing, so 
I went out to find our hack. It was nowhere in 
sight, however, so I returned to the pavilion. The 
music was just beginning again. We decided to 
dance one piece more, and then, if the hackman 


176 


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had not yet arrived, to walk home. Howland 
now insisted that he had been treated badly and 
that Miss Andrews owed him a dance. 

“Can I,” she whispered to me, “I really ought 
to, and you should dance with Miss Wallace.^’ 

So it was arranged, and Miss Wallace and I 
danced together. I did not imagine it then, but 
it was the last dance that I was ever to have in 
Galveston — and it was not with Mary. 

A two-step was played. As soon as we were 
on the floor. Miss Wallace whispered to me, “Are 
you not going to thank me for to-night?’^ 

“For to-night,” I answered, puzzled at first, 
“You don’t mean to say that you arranged ” 

She did not let me finish. “Yes, I, principally, 
and Mary a little — What are you going to give 
me?” 

I guessed it all now. “I would give you my 
heart,” I answered, smiling, “but unfortunately 
it is no longer mine.” 

She almost stopped, and we lost step, and had 
to wait a moment to catch the time. “Has Mary 
really!” she exclaimed, though in a voice hardly 
louder than a whisper. 

“I was not speaking about Mary,” I answered, 
“I was speaking about myself.” 

“Oh, how you have disappointed me,” she cried, 
as we moved on again in time to the music, “I 
was in hopes that — that all your troubles were 
over.” 


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177 


“What do you know about my troubles?” I 
demanded. 

“Oh, Mr. Howland has told me everything; I 
am training him not to have any secrets from me; 
and I know that he has told you about us.” 

“He' has,” I answered, “and I have already 
congratulated him. For you, of course, I feel 
sorry.” 

“Don^t joke, please, or I will not help you any 
more with Mary, though I like to encourage the 
love affairs of young people — Why did you not 
speak to her to-night?” 

Here a couple jostled us, for I was guiding badly, 
and I was able to escape answering. I was glad, 
as the conversation rather grated on me. A moment 
later the music stopped and we joined Mary and 
Howland. The girls gathered their wraps and we 
left the hall. Our hack was not in sight so we 
started immediately on our walk homeward. It 
was not very far and the night was pleasant. Mary 
and I walked behind, but the others were so close 
to us most of the time that intimate conversation 
was impossible. At her gate they left us. We 
did not speak until they were some distance away. 
Then I asked Mary when her father would return. 

“He was to return to-night,” she answered, “he 
is probably already home now.” 

“Then I will see him to-morrow.” 

“Oh, Graham, don't— and yet— yes, you had 
better see him. Ellen has written to him, I think.” 


178 


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She stopped and looked down for a moment, then 
she took my hands in hers, and, turning to me, 
continued: “Graham, are you absolutely sure 
of yourself? You don’t know what a terrible risk 
you are taking in asking me to marry you. I have 
been spoiled for the last four years, and ” 

I bent and kissed her hands: “I would take 
any risk in the world to have you,” I answered. 

“I have already risked ” again I was about 

to tell her my secret, but she interrupted me : “And 
then I fear for myself. To-night has destroyed 
my self-confidence. The reason I hurried back 
to the pavilion was that I did not dare to stay 
with you alone a moment longer. I know now 
that I can love — ^love with as much passion as any 
woman in the world. And if I should give myself 
to you — you knowing me as liitle as you do — and 
later you should find me out, and cease to love me, 
my life would be ruined forever. Do not let us 
make any promises now, but wait — wait until we 
know each other better.” 

We had been standing on the inside of the gate 
where the moon flooded us with light, now we walked 
forward a few steps until we were under the shadow 
of the trees. “I will wait for you as long as you 
want, Mary,” I said, “but I think that we had 
better be engaged. Then I can have a right to 
speak to your father to-morrow. Something must 
be arranged as we cannot continue as we have 
been doing. Tell me, can I speak to him?” 

She drew closer to me and looked into my eyes. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


179 


“Tell me once more/^ she said, “on your soul, 
are you sure that you love me?” 

“Mary,” I answered, “on my soul, I love you 
better than my life — better than anything in this 
world or beyond — if there is a beyond.” 

“Then you can speak to my father to-morrow.” 

I drew her to me. “Will you not kiss me once?” 
I asked. 

She raised her face to mine, and, as I kissed her 
on the lips, she put her arms around my neck and 
kissed me in return. There is but one such kiss 
in the world. Some few have felt it, and it has 
marked an epoch in their lives; but to the most 
it must forever remain unknown. 


180 


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X. 

I awoke rather later than usual the next morning, 
and so, before dressing, wrote a short note to Mr. 
Andrews asking him if I could see him at his house 
at ten o’clock. I sent the note by my stable-boy 
with instructions not to wait for an answer. I 
then bathed and dressed. About eight the answer 
came. I read it before going to breakfast. It 
was very brief and formal, but it stated that Mr 
Andrews would see me at the hour indicated. I 
had very hard work killing the time until ten o’clock. 
I tried to read, but I could not fix my mind on the 
book. Then I paid Queen a short visit, and after- 
wards walked slowly to the beach and back. I 
still had ten minutes to spare. I took another 
slow walk around the block, looldng at my watch 
every few seconds, until, at a minute to ten, I rang 
the bell of Mr. Andrews’ house. The door was opened 
almost immediately, and I entered the wide hall way 
and was shown by the servant into the drawing- 
room which opened into it. Mr. Andrews was 
standing near the center of the room, and seated 
by one of the windows was Mary. I was surprised 
to see her, but her presence helped me, for the 
nervousness which I had felt on entering the room 
left me, and I was able to meet Mr. Andrews on 
equal terms. I bowed to them both, but Mary 
alone returned my bow. She rose from her seat, 
also, and, crossing the room, took my hand and 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


181 


pressed it lightly for an instant. Then she turned 
to her father and said, '‘Do you still insist upon 
my staying in this room?’' 

"Yes,” he answered, "I do; I wish this matter 
to be settled at once.” Then he turned to me. 
"I received your letter this morning. I would 
have declined to have any communication with 
a person of your character had not my daughter 
told me that you have had the insolence to propose 
marriage to her and that she had accepted. Now 
I want to tell you what I have already told her, 
that before I die or after she will not receive one 
cent of my fortune unless she marries a man I 
approve of, and I positively forbid her to marry 
you.” 

I listened in perfect silence, for my poker training 
stood me in good stead, and was able to ask in 
a voice that had not a tremor in it when he had 
finished, "And she has said?” 

The question disconcerted him. He hesitated 
a moment before he answered. When he spoke 
it was evident that he was growing angry. "What 
my daughter may or may not have said is immaterial : 
it is to you that I am speaking now.” He hesitated 
again, then he continued: "I have a proposition 
to make to you — if you will leave this town to-day 
I will give you a thousand dollars — if you stay and 
my daughter is fool enough to marry you, you will 
get absolutely nothing.” 

He misjudged me so absolutely that his offer 
scarcely made me angry, still I could not resist 


182 


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saying in a voice, the scorn in which I made no 
attempt to conceal, ‘‘A thousand dollars! Really 
you do not value your daughter very highly.” 

At this he lost his self-control entirely, and made 
a step towards me and raised his arm as if he were 
about to strike, cr3dng at the same time, ‘‘You 
scoundrel!” 

For an instant my impulse was to knock him 
down. He was still a well-preserved man, not 
over middle age, and^ strongly built; but Mary 
was beside me, and I managed to control myself. 
“Listen to me, Mr. Andrews,” I said, “I will not 
detain you a minute. The opinion you have formed 
of me is entirely wrong. I care nothing for the 
money that Mary might inherit from you — if you 
offered me everything you have it would still be 
as nothing in comparison with her. . Personally 
I am glad to know that if she marries me she will 
come to me with nothing, and I believe that she 
really cares as little for your threat as I do. I came 
to you this morning because I considered it the 
right thing to do. You have given me your answer 
and have tried to insult me as well. Now I will 
inform you that I will marry Mary the instant I 
can obtain her consent.” 

Mary took my hand. She was trembling, and 
was very pale; but her eyes were firm, “Do not say 
anything more, Graham,” she said, “father will 
only insult you again as he has already insulted 
me before you came this morning. Go, now, and 
I will see you some time during the day.” 


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183 


I turned to leave the room and Mary followed 
me. We had not reached the door, however, 
before Mr. Andrews cried, ^‘Stop,” and we paused 
on the threshold and faced him. He was trembling 
with rage, and had to struggle with his voice an 
instant before he could control it sufficiently to 
continue, then he said, hoarsely, “Mary, do you 
still refuse to obey my orders and give this man up?" 

She gave me one long look before she answered, 
“Yes." 

It was nearly a minute before he spoke again, 
during which we faced him in silence. When he 
did his voice was under perfect control, though his 
eyes still showed anger. “Think once again, Mary," 
he said, “it is your last chance." 

“I have thought, father, and I cannot obey you 
in this." 

“Then you leave this house to-day. I will give 
you one hour’s time to gather your clothes and go — 
and go never to return. If you do I will have the 
servants put you out." 

Her face flushed, but she controlled herself 
wonderfully. “That last was unnecessary, father," 
she said, “you need not fear that I will ever return. 
I will go now as soon as I tell mama good-by." 

He did not answer, and we walked out of the 
room together. At the foot of the stairs she stopped. 
“Wait for me a few minutes," she said, “I will 
not be very long," and she started up the wide 
stairway. She had only gone a few steps when 
she turned. “No, don’t wait for me inside the 


184 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


house; wait for me at the side gate — and — and 
promise that you will not have any quarrel with 
my father/’ 

I hesitated. I dreaded to leave her alone in 
the house with him. She guessed my thought. 
^‘Don’t be afraid for me,” she said, ‘‘I will be per- 
fectly safe with mama. For my sake please go 
now before anything happens.” 

There was nothing to do but to leave the house, and 
she waited on the steps until I had closed the door 
behind me. I walked to the side gate. She was 
very long in coming, or at least so it seemed to 
me. As the minutes passed I began to grow very 
anxious and to imagine all sorts of horrors. I had 
almost decided to return to the house in spite 
of her command when she appeared. As soon as 
she drew near me I could se§ that she had been 
cr5dng. I opened the gate quickly and she joined 
me outside. 

‘'What has happened, Mary,” I asked, and I took her 
hands in mine. 

The tears came into her eyes again. “Poor 
mama,” she said, “I could hardly tell her good-by. 
She is quite sick this morning and cannot leave 
her bed. Graham, I ought to stay with her.” 

“If it were possible, Mary, I would say yes ; but is it 
not too late now?” 

“Yes,’* she said, slowly, “it is too late now. 
I will never, never enter that house nor speak 
to my father again. And I should not even cry, 
for mama has given her consent to my marrying 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


185 


you^ and she has promised to visit us as soon as 
we have settled somewhere. Tell me, Graham, 
where are we going to live?” 

I had thought that I already loved Mary as much 
as it was possible for a man to love, but with her 
last words a new vista opened before me, and I saw 
that as yet I was only on the threshold, for, now 
that she had given herself, the gift was absolute. 
As she looked up to me now, with perfect trust 
in her eyes, I could not resist the temptation, but 
stooped and kissed her and for the second time she 
kissed me in return. It was not so very improper, 
for the street was absolutely deserted, and we 
were hidden by the oleanders. She did not even 
blush, and no surer sign could be given of the purity 
of her thoughts. 

‘Tn New York,” I answered, presently, ^‘it is 
the only home I have now. If you are willing we 
will start to-day.” 

^‘To-day?” 

‘^Yes, I think it will be best. You would not 
care to stay in Galveston and face all the gossip 
that our marriage will cause. You could not 
even go on the street without attracting attention.” 

“But to leave my mother; still — yes, I will do 
whatever you think best. Where are we going 
now?” we had been walking along slowly. 

“To Miss Wallace’s. I thought I would leave 
you there while I made arrangements for our mar- 
riage. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“No— yes— I believe that I am afraid. How 


186 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


can I explain to her what has happened this morn- 
ing?’^ 

“You need not explain anything; she will under- 
stand — she is not nearly as frivolous as she appears 
on the surface.’’ 

Mary laughed. “She would be much obliged 
to you for saying that. Do you know, at one time 
I thought you were in love with her — but your 
case was hopeless — she has been in love with Mn 
Howland for a long time. Oh, how wicked I used 
to be — I tried my best to get him away from her 
though I never cared for him in the least, and she 
was one of my best friends.” 

“Oh, Mary, Mary,” I cried; “but you need not 
be afraid of her anger now. She and Howland 
have been engaged for the last two weeks.” 

^‘Really? I am very glad. Then I will go with 
you.” 

We had reached the gate while we had been 
talking, and now we entered the garden and walked 
to the door. It was open so we passed through 
and entered the drawing-room. Miss Wallace was 
standing by one of the windows. When she saw 
us she dropped some flowers that she had in her 
hand and gave a little dramatic start of surprise, 
then she ran up to Mary and kissed her. After- 
wards she turned to me and said reproachfully, 
“Why did you not tell me last night?” 

“Because last night I did not know myself. 
Now I want to know if you will lend me your house 
for a little while? We want to get married here.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


187 


Miss Wallace’s jesting manner fell from her like 
a cloak. In an instant her arm was around Mary’s 
waist. “Has anything serious happened, dear?” 
she asked. 

Then Mary broke down completely and began 
sobbing convulsively. I could not bear it, though 
I knew that it was onl}^ the other girl’s kindness 
that affected her, so, after a word to Miss Wallace 
to the effect that I would return immediately, I 
left the house. 

There were many things to be attended to if 
we were to be married and leave for New York that 
day. My first call was at Howland’s office. I 
found him in, and when I told him the object of 
my visit he agreed to give me the rest of the day 
without hesitation. We decided to divide up the 
work between us. I would get the railroad tickets 
and he the license, and somebody to marry us, then 
we would all meet at the court-house and drive to 
Miss Wallace’s together. He thought that he could 
get the judge to perform the ceremony or, if not, 
would find some other legally constituted authority. 
I much preferred myself to have the marriage a 
civil one, as I disliked the idea of going through 
the farce of a religious ceremony. I would have 
consented to have done so for Mary’s sake if I 
had not known that she was almost as much of an 
agnostic as I was. When we agreed on this I 
telephoned to Miss Wallace to expect us about 
twelve and spoke a word to Mary. Then Howland 
and I separated; I went to the bank and drew' out 


188 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


all my money and then went to the station. I had 
intended going by way of St. Louis; but on con- 
sulting the ticket agent I found that the through 
train had already gone, and that if we took any 
of the others by that route w^e would have a suc- 
cession of tedious delays on the way. There was, 
however, a train for New Orleans which left at 
five, connecting at Houston with the Southern 
Pacific, to which a through sleeper was attached. 
The drawing-room of this was vacant, so I engaged 
it. From New Orleans we could go on to New 
York by sea or rail as we chose. The decision 
of this question could be left to Mary. As I paid 
for the tickets a most violent fear assailed me. I 
felt that I was doing a most reckless thing, sufficient 
to bring down upon me the wrath of the gods, for 
I was acting as if I was certain that Mary would 
marry me, whereas in my heart of hearts I knew 
that something would happen at the last moment 
to separate us. I decided to hedge against fate. 
I told the ticket agent that it was rather probable 
that the friend whom I expected to accompany 
me might not be able to go, in which case I would 
return the other ticket. He said that it would 
be all right as the law compelled them to redeem 
tickets and that my friend could present his ticket 
any day within the limit and that it would be 
redeemed. I thanked him and left, feeling very 
much ashamed of my cowardice. 

On the steps of the court-house I found Howland 
waiting, while in front was a hack. The judge, 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


189 


he said, had agreed to perform the ceremony — 
he had caught him by telephone — and was now 
waiting for us at his home; the court was not in 
session that day. We entered the hack and drove 
to his residence, and, after a short delay, he joined 
us. It was not quite twelve when we reached 
Miss Wallace’s. I w^as dreadfully nervous by 
this time, and was almost afraid to go in, as I was 
certain that I would find Mary gone. She was 
not in the drawing-room when we entered, but my 
fears were groundless,, for, after a few minutes, she 
came in accompanied iy Miss Wallace. All traces of 
her tears had vanished, and she was looking more 
beautiful than I had ever seen her — her hair was 
parted in the center and brushed back in loose 
waves to the sides; her cheeks were faintly tinged 
v/ith color, while in the depths of her eyes a wonder- 
ful light lay smouldering. 

What followed during the next few minutes I 
hardly remember. The judge asked us a few 
questions and presently I was told that we were 
married. All that the law could do to make us 
husband and wife was over. Aimless conversation 
followed, and then lunch. It was the most dis- 
agreeable that I had ever had at that house. The 
judge was an ass, and thought it incumbent on 
himself to get off all the stock jokes which are 
supposed to be appropriate on such occasions. It 
ended after a dreary while, but then I had to leave 
immediately to finish packing. Howland accom- 
panied me. Most of the work was already done, 


190 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


but there were still enough odds and ends lying 
around to make it a tedious job. I had decided 
to take only my steamer trunk and valise, and to 
leave everything else to go on by water. Howland 
promised to attend to this. Then we called up 
another hack, as the first had taken the judge home, 
and while waiting for this. I went to pay my land- 
lady and to tell Queen good by. I hated to part 
with the latter, but I knew that I could not possibly 
afford to keep a horse in New York, so had decided 
to give her to Howland. I told him this now. 
At first he refused to accept her, but finally con- 
sented. 

It was nearly four when I returned to Miss Wal- 
lace’s. Both she and Mary were waiting for us 
in the drawing-room. Mary had been writing, and 
she now gave me a letter to send to her mother. 
There was still an hour before the train would 
leave, and in my nervous condition it was impos- 
sible for me to sit quietly through it, so I asked 
Mary if she would mind taking a ride on the cars 
to the beach to tell it a last good-by. She con- 
sented and we left the house. I gave her letter 
to one of the servants to deliver to Mrs. Andrews. 
Howland and Miss Wallace promised to meet us 
at the station — Howland to drive down in the hack 
in which I had placed my luggage. We left them 
at the gate, and Mary and I walked to Center street 
and took a car which passed the beach and returned 
by way of Thirty-third street. We had it almost 
to ourselves. It was the first time that we had been 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


191 


alone together since our marriage, but we hardly 
spoke. Once I asked her if she had yet been able 
to realize that she was really married, and she 
answered, “No.” 

It was nearing five when we reached the station. 
Howland and Miss Wallace were awaiting us. We 
went direct to our car, but did notenter immediately. 
Howland gave me my trunk check, and told me 
that the rest of my baggage was inside. After 
a few more words good-byes were exchanged and 
they left us. We boarded the car and stood on 
the platform a moment to watch them out of sight. 
On reaching the corner of the street they stopped 
an instant and we waved our hands in farewell, 
then turned to go inside. Just then a hack drove 
past and Mary clutched my arm. I looked and 
saw Mrs. Andrews. I called to the hackman to 
stop, and, jumping down from the platform of 
the car, ran to open the door. Our car had not 
yet been coupled on to the rest of the train, and 
was standing alone on the opposite side of the street. 
There were but few people near us. I had hardly 
opened the door of the hack before Mary was by 
my side. She stepped in quickly, and I closed 
the door and turned away so as not to be a witness 
to the parting which I knew would be so desperately 
hard for them both. Two or three minutes passed; 
then there came a warning bell, and the train backed 
down to couple on to our car. I turned to the hack 
again and opened the door and took Mary’s hand. 
Her head was resting on her mother’s breast, and 


1^2 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


the eyes of both were filled with tears. I drew 
Mary gently towards me; “You must say good-by 
now,” I said. 

“Graham, I cannot,^^ she sobbed, and she clasped 
her arms around her mother’s neck and drew her 
more closely to her. 

The cars came together with a slight jar; there 
was not a moment to spare. Mrs. Andrews gently 
loosened Mary’s arms and gave her to me. “Be 
good to her, Graham,” she said. Then she kissed 
Mary once more and I lifted her out of the hack. 

We had scarcely mounted the platform before 
the train was in motion. I led Mary inside. Our 
drawing-room was at the same end of the car so 
we did not have to pass by the other passengers to 
enter it. As I opened the door I noticed through 
the window in the passage-way that the train had 
stopped again in front of the station. There was 
a large crowd present, and in the midst of it was 
Ewing. Whether he had heard of my marriage 
and had come down to make trouble or not I could 
not guess, though it made me more anxious than 
ever to get away. But he failed to see me, as the 
glass of the window was down and it was dark 
inside. At last the train started again and he 
slowly passed from my sight. I entered the room 
now and closed the door shutting out the view 
of the station — Mary had already gone inside. 
Our wedding journey had begun. Faster and 
faster moved the train. Through the window 
on our side of the car we could see the houses rushing 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


193 


by us. Soon the last of these was passed and we 
were in the open country. Mary rested her head 
on my shoulder and let her tears flow without 
restraint. 

Some minutes passed, and then, gradually, Mary’s 
tears ceased, though I could still feel the rapid 
beating of her heart against my breast. Presently 
she felt for her handkerchief and I handed her 
mine. She dried her eyes and then looked up 
with a shadowy smile hovering on her lips, “I am 
never going to cry again,” she said, ^‘has it made 
me very ugly?” 

It had not, strangely enough, though when I 
held her a little from me I noticed that her hat 
had got rather rakishly twisted to one side. As 
soon as I told her this she left me and ran to the 
glass, and, after one glance at her image began 
taking it off rapidly. 

Meanwhile I looked around the room to see if 
all our luggage was safely in. Mine was; but that 
was all — not a sign of Mary’s was visible. A sudden 
compunction seized me — for the past few years 
my life had been such a thoroughly selfish one 
that I had long since ceased to take a thought for 
another than myself — and now Mary’s baggage 
had never been put on the train. I gazed around 
in despair. Just then Mary turned from the look- 
ing-glass with her hat in her hand and smiled at 
me. When she saw my semi-tragic expression 
she laughed. “What in the world is the matter?’^ 
she asked. 


194 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


‘‘Mary/’ I answered, ^‘who did you have to attend 
to your baggage?” 

At first she looked at me with surprise, then a 
deep blush rose to her cheek. “Oh, Graham, I 
forgot,” she cried, “I intended to buy everything 
I needed — I thought of it while you were away ; but 
when you joined me again everything passed from 
my mind. What, oh, what shall I do?” 

I laughed and kissed her. “It really doesn’t 
make any difference,” I said, “we will be in New 
Orleans in the morning and then you can shop to 
your heart’s content. Everything then will be 
free from the taint of Galveston.” 

I drew her to the seat by the window and raised 
the glass. We were on the long bridge, now, that 
connects the island with the main land, and a pleas- 
ant breeze was blowing over the bay. 

Mary seemed hardly comforted by my suggestion. 
“It is simply awful,” she said. “To think that I 
am on my wedding journey without a trousseau! — 
and I always mtended to have such a beautiful 
one — Graham, you had better give me up.” 

I put my arm around her waist and pressed her 
to me before I answered. “I will not say yes even 
in jest. I would rather have you just as you are 
than another girl with a million trousseaux. You 
do not know yet all that you mean to me. It is 
so wonderful that I cannot realize it myself. And 
to think that at this hour yesterday I had given 
up all hope. Do you know what I did? I went 
to the graveyard where we spent our first hour 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


195 


together and passed the afternoon sitting on the 
tombstone of our poor friend George. I needed 
gloomy surroundings to harmonize with my feelings. 
Even now I cannot realize that you are actually 
with me. If, at this moment, I should suddenly 
awake and find myself still sitting there I would 
hardly be surprised. Suppose, after all, that this 
is only a dream.” 

She put her arms around my neck and kissed 
me of her own free will. ‘‘It is not a dream,” she 
said. 

Oh, the delights of that journey. I cannot remem- 
ber all our words — there were so many questions 
to ask and answer. She explained to me the reason 
of her action at Miss Morgan’s, when, after inviting 
me there, she had filled her program without saving 
me a dance. It had not been really filled for two 
of the names on it were of men who did not exist. 
She was afraid that she had gone too far that morn- 
ing and wished to frighten me a little. She did 
not want me to know yet how much she had really 
begun to care for me. But she had not intended 
to keep me frightened long, and a few minutes 
later, not seeing me in the room, had sent Howland 
to look for me. When he came back and told her 
that I had gone she was in despair. She had not 
thought for an instant that I would take it so seri- 
ously. The whole dance was spoilt for her then, 
and she had gone home before supper. And the 
next morning she had ridden out early to meet 
me and had spent nearly two hours on the beach. 


196 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


When she got home she decided to write to me, but 
postponed doing so until the evening in hopes that 
I would write to her first. It was during the day, 
whil6 calling on Miss Wallace, that she had heard 
the dance for Friday night discussed, and it was 
then that she had made up her mind to say nothing 
to me until she met me there. She had had nothing 
to do with the arrangement to change escorts — 
all she had done was to get Howland to promise 
faithfully to make me go to the dance. She did 
not even know that we were to meet in the carriage 
until that very night. And over what followed 
she had had absolutely no control. She would never 
have given me all her dances if, from the moment 
she had taken my arm in the garden, all her will 
had not deserted her. 

It was a delightful journey — the only drawback 
was the porter. With that peculiar instinct which 
all good porters have he had sized us up as being 
out of the ordinary, and we had scarcely finished 
crossing the bridge before he gave a gentle knock 
at the door. We started apart as if we were engaged 
in doing something wrong, and then I called ‘^come 
in.” 

He entered, and after fumbling round among 
the towels, asked us if we would not like to have 
the sky-lights opened, and whether he should not 
put a screen in the window, and made many other 
desperate efforts to draw us into conversation. I 
finally took pity on him, and asked him at what 
time we would arrive at Houston, and how long 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


197 


we would stop there. He answered, and then 
inquired whether we would take supper in Houston 
or on the train. I thought that the latter would 
be more pleasant for us, and so informed him; but 
it was a fatal mistake, for he made it the pretext 
of several other visits. He was overwhelmingly 
polite, though I think that we puzzled him some- 
what, for while his instinct told him that we were 
a newly married couple, he could discover none 
of the customary signs either in our dress or luggage. 
After a time this rather embarrassed Mary, and 
on his leaving us after his third visit she whispered 
to me. am sure he is wondering where my 
baggage is; do invent some story to explain; you 
know that you are good at fiction,” but I declined 
to lower my dignity by temporizing with a porter. 

The question of luggage reminded me, however, 
to get out my traveling cap, and the few other 
things that I would need on the road. I pulled 
my valise from under the seat and opened it. Mary 
came and leaned over my shoulder. She was 
intensely interested — or pretended to be. Every- 
thing had to come out and be examined. The lid 
was beautifully arranged. It contained in little 
cases every conceivable toilet article. One thing 
that fascinated Mary was a little curling-iron for a 
man dudishly inclined to use in curling his mustache 
and a little spirit lamp with which to heat it. She 
siezed upon the curling-iron instantly, and was 
inclined to be somewhat ironical, though I assured 
her that I never used it, and pointed out the fact 


198 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


that my mustache did not have little ringlets at 
its ends. She refused to accept my statement. 

Then my silver-mounted hair brushes caught 
her eye, and she took them out and ran to the glass 
and began brushing her hair. I found my trav-eling 
cap finally, though it was not in the place where 
I generally kept it, and threw it on the seat. To 
my surprise a package, which I did not remember 
to have placed in my valise fell from it. I picked 
it up and was about to open it, when I saw the name, 
“Mrs. Graham Woodhouse,” written on the outside. 

“Mary,” I cried, “come here; there is a present 
for you.” She ran to my side, and together we 
opened the package. Inside was a case, and in 
this a beautiful little ladies’ watch, and a jewel 
arrangement with which to attach it to the dress. 
Together with these was Miss Wallace’s card on 
which, written in pencil, were a few words wishing 
her a pleasant journey. 

Mary gave a little cry of pleasure. “What a 
dear girl she is,” she said. “I told her this morning 
that I had left everything behind, and she must 
have noticed that I was without my watch; you 
must send her a telegram. ” 

I agreed, and then, while Mary was still admiring 
her watch, turned again to my valise to replace 
the articles which had been taken out. My discovery 
of the watch had probably sharpened my senses, 
for now I noticed the edge of an envelope sticking 
out from behind my shaving-glass. I drew it out 
and opened it. There was some money inside 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


199 


and a note from Howland. After a few words 
of ironical advice to the effect that a woman, a 
dog, and a hickory tree, the more you beat ^em the 
better they be, he continued: ‘‘I have decided 
that I cannot accept such a valuable horse as Queen 
from you as a present. Matrimony is an expensive 
luxury. The enclosed may come in handy on the 
road.’’ There were five fifty-dollar bills. 

^‘Mary,” I called, “stop looking at your watch 
a minute; I have a wedding present, too. Look,” 
and I showed her the bills, “this makes me fairly 
rolling in money.” 

She fastened the watch to her dress, and then, ^ 
with absolute unconsciousness, as if she were so 
sure that all that was mine was hers now that it 
no longer needed a thought, took Howland’s letter 
from my hand and began to read it. I watched her 
in silence, while the dread that she would never 
really become mine which had haunted me all day 
grew stronger. It could not be that after the life 
I had led I could win such a woman for my wife. 

I do not think that I have ever tried to describe 
her — indeed, to describe her face would be beyond 
my power, for it was one of those in which the ex- 
pression is everything. When interested in talking 
or when lit up by the excitement of a dance its 
beauty was almost dazzling, though these were 
the times that I cared for her the least, for I always 
felt that she was acting. It was her thoughtful 
face that I loved the best, or her face when abso- 
lutely in repose. 


200 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


In figure she was above the average height, some 
five feet six or seven inches, I should think, and 
this caused her to appear more slender than she 
really was, for, if you looked at her closely, you could 
see that she had none of those hollows which exist 
in the bodies of women who are really thin. Her 
neck and arms were perfect, while, when she breathed 
deeply, or some excitement stirred her, you could 
see the outlines of her full breasts marked plainly 
by the movement of her dress. 

Her waist was naturally small, though larger 
than those of women who compress themselves 
with corsets. The color of her hair was of the light- 
est chestnut, showing golden in the sunshine. 

But it was in her eyes, 1 think, that her chief 
beauty lay, and when once you had learned to read 
them they told you her thoughts far more plainly 
than words. 

Now, as they rapidly glanced over the first few 
lines of Howland’s letter, I could see that they were 
laughing, though the rest of her face was grave. 
But presently they ceased to laugh, and when she 
laid the letter down they had become very thought- 
ful. She did not say anything, though, but took 
a seat next to my valise and watched me silently 
while I resumed my packing. A minute or two 
passed before she spoke. 

‘‘There is one thing that I have often wanted to 
ask you,” she said finally. “You once told me 
that you had never had in your life, at one time, 
five hundred dollars, until you came to Galveston. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


201 


Now your family were always considered well off 
in the old days — much better off than we were 
then — tell me, did your father disinherit you?” 

‘^No,” I answered, ‘‘he died suddenly without 
making a will.” 

“Then you must have inherited equally with Alice . ” 

“I did, of course, but when the estate was settled 
there was not so much left as we had expected, and 
as Alice’s half alone was not enough to support her 
I gave her mine.” 

“Oh, Graham, if I had only known this before! 
How I could have answered those who have accused 
you of being a fortune hunter. Only this morning 
my father was certain that if he offered you a thou- 
sand dollars that you would accept — and — you 
will forgive me, Graham — I was frightened that his 
judgment of you might be true. I knew since last 
night that I loved you — and yet — yet — I had an 
awful fear that I might have made a mistake in 
your character. You see I have been out so long, 
and many men have proposed to me — some of whom 
I really hardly knew, and who only asked me for 
the money which they thought that I would have — ■ 
that it had become hard for me to trust anybody 
absolutely. And yet you see that I did trust you — 
haven’t I? 

It was twilight when we reached Houston. We 
left the car and walked up and down the platform 
for a few minutes. Then Mary reminded me of 
the telegram for Miss Wallace, and I left her for 
a moment to send it. When I returned I found 


202 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


her talking to a young Galvestonian named Clegget, 
a most inveterate chatterbox and a good deal 
of a bore. We were not friends and he had been a 
decided partisan of Ewing’s during my poker trouble. 

I greeted him now rather shortly. He took no notice 
of this, however, as he could not be put down by 
any ordinary snub. I was about to make my 
meaning a little more plain when he said: ‘‘I 
suppose. Miss Andrews, you are waiting for some 
friends.” 

Mary was about to answer when an idea occurred 
to me which would give me a chance to obtain 
a little revenge. I raised my eyebrows slightly 
as a signal and she caught my meaning instantly. 
For the next few minute^ she became Miss Andrews 
again, and flirted with the creature, whom she 
disliked as much as I did, outrageously, and froze 
me every time I uttered a word. This encouraged 
him so much that he began trying to get rid of 
me. He would propose a walk to the end of the 
platform, and Mary would start off with him; then 
I would calmly take my place on her other side 
and walk with them. After two or three turns 
this so exasperated him that he finally stopped 
abruptly and said, “Pardon me — er — Mr. Wood- 
house, but I have a message to deliver to Miss 
Andrews alone,” and he smiled at her privately 
as if he had said a very clever thing. 

“Oh, you needn’t bother about my being present,” 
I answered, “Mrs. Woodhouse won’t mind.” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


203 


The blow staggered him for an instant, and 
before he could recover I followed it up with another; 
‘‘But I am afraid that you will have to postpone 
your message until some other time as my wife 
and I are now about to take the train;” then I 
bowed and Mary smiled sweetly and took my arm 
and we left him, struck dumb for the first time 
in his life. A moment later I was sorry for my 
victory, though my feelings were running so deeply 
now that any superficial idiocy was a relief. For 
I knew that the crisis of m}^ life was drawing nearer 
and nearer and I more than dreaded the result. 

The lights were burning when we returned to 
our car, and shortly after we started the porter 
served us our dinner. He had flowers on the 
table, and strawberries and fresh fruit, having 
evidently finally decided that he was right in his 
conjectures, even if there were no outside indications 
that we were a newly married couple. 

It was nearly nine when we finished. We left 
the drawing-room to give the porter an opportunity 
to prepare the berths for the night and walked 
out to the rear platform of our car, which was 
the last on the train, and sat down on the steps. 
It was a beautiful night, and we had a clear view 
of the scenery around us. The moon was nearly 
full, and there was not a cloud in the sky. We 
were passing through a thickly wooded stretch 
of country, and the shadows of the great trees met 
and interlaced across the track. 


204 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


For many minutes we sat in silence. Mary 
rested her head on my shoulder and watched the 
flying shadows with dreamy eyes. The peace of 
the moment was so perfect that I dreaded to break 
it with words; but broken it had to be, for I felt that 
I must tell Mary before we retired that night how 
it was that the accident on the beach had occurred. 
I wished our married life to begin mthout a secret 
between us, and now the time to speak had come. 
As yet I did not consider ourselves as being really 
married, for the legal ceremony we had gone through 
that day I counted as nothing. A marriage is 
not a marriage until it is consummated, and the 
consummation can only be sanctified by love — 
those who enter into it for wealth, position or any 
other reason are merely legalized prostitutes. 

But it was fearfully hard for me to begin, and 
many more minutes slipped by before I could 
force myself to speak. At last I found my voice : 
^‘There is something that I must tell you, dearest,” 
I said, “it is the only secret that I have from you; 
but I hardly know how to begin.” 

I paused, and Mary moved slightly; but it was 
only to nestle more closely to me, and to turn her 
head so that she could watch my face. “DonT 
tell me if you don’t want to,” she said; “is it a bad 
secret?” 

“I hardly know,” 1 answered, “but I am afraid 
that it is — at least, most people would think so; 
but I don’t care for that as long as you don’t think 
with them. I really don’t want to tell you; but 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


205 


you have given me a conscience, and it says that 
I must.” 

I stopped again and looked at Mary. We had 
entered into a wide clearing now, and the moonlight 
was striking full upon her face. I could see by it 
that she had grown more serious; but still she did 
not speak, so I continued: will put it in the 

form of a story ; it will be easier for me that way.” 

“Once upon a time there lived a man. He was 
not such a very bad man, as men go, though he 
was far from being a good one. He knew this 
himself, and he often made resolutions to reform, 
though he never carried them out. Then came 
a day when he saw for an instant a woman’s soul. 
It was so bright that it dazzled him at first; dazzled 
him so that for a time he went on more blindly 
than before ; but one night the light from it pierced 
him. From then he strove with all his force to 
make himself more worthy. Months passed; again 
the body of the woman was before him. But 
when he looked for the soul which had sustained 
him, it was no longer there, or was hidden from 
his sight beneath a mass of worldliness. He strove 
to find it again, but it seemed to be too late. Then 
he lost hope and became reckless. He plunged 
into every kind of dissipation — but still he could 
not forget the beauty of the soul that he had once 
seen. He went away, but its power over him 
remained unbroken, and once again drew him 
towards the spot where the body it inhabited 
dwelt. And there came one night on his journey 


206 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


onward, while he was resting in the open air looking 
at the stars, that he made a resolution — that while 
life remained, and cost what it might, he would 
never cease striving to win the woman for his 
wife, and that never again in thought or deed 
would he do an act that would render him unworthy 
of her.” Mary’s arm passed round my waist, and 
her cheek pressed more closely on my shoulder. 
I kissed her once — only once — though I knew that it 
might be for the last time — then continued: 

^‘So he came again to the place where the body 
of the woman lived. And on the very first day of 
his arrival he saw her — saw her at a moment when 
his own life was trembling in the balance.” 

Mary raised her head for an instant: “Graham, 
my heart stopped beating in that moment.” 

“He saw her the next day — she was riding — 
and he saw her day after day; but she no longer 
knew him.” 

“Darling, I was longing in my heart all the time 
to speak, but my pride prevented me.” 

“ — She no longer knew him. Then he grew 
desperate, and said, T will make her speak to me 
and know me again’; and when a desparate man 
says, ‘I will,’ only death can stop him. 

“He thought for many days before a plan came 
to him. It was a plan such as only one who is 
desperate could make. Even he hesitated before 
carrying it out, for it involved her life as well as 
his own. While hesitating he wrote her a letter. 
She returned the letter ” 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


207 


“Graham, darling, I did not dare to open it. Oh, 

if I had known that you loved me like this 

“She returned the letter with a few words of her 
own, and something in these appealed to him and 
he abandoned his plan. But the next day she 
did not ride and his hesitation vanished. That 
night, like a thief, he entered her stable, and, taking 
the bridle of her horse, removed two links of the 

chain — one on each side — tying ” 

The heart against my breast began to beat rapidly, 
and the pressure of the arm around my waist in- 
creased, but she said nothing. 

“Tying the parts together again with thread 
of the same color strongly enough to resist any 
ordinary strain, but sure to break if a sudden jerk 
were given. He returned to his home, and all 
the next day he sat at the window of his room 
watching for the woman to come out. He was to 
ride behind her, and as soon as her bridle broke 
and her horse ran away he was to rescue her. Then 
she would know him again and speak to him, and 
in her gratitude she would grant his request to 
be allowed to see her alone for one hour every day.’’ 

I could feel that Mary was trembling, but the 
story had to be finished so I continued resolutely: 
“He realized fully the risk that he was taking; but 
,he knew that the woman was a good rider, and he 
felt certain that he could stop her horse before she 
was thrown. But for the failure of his plan he 
was also prepared. With him he carried a pistol: 
if she should fall and not be killed -instantly, but 


208 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


injured so severely as to become a helpless cripple, 
he would see that she did not live to suffer; one 
bullet would save her from all pain, and then another 
would meet out to him his punishment/’ 

Mary straightened up suddenly. “Stop,” she 
cried. “Don’t tell me any more. This is horrible.” 

But it was too late to stop now, so I hurried 
through with the last few words of my story, while 
Mary sat tense with her hands clasped in front of 
her and the fingers interlocked. “The man, I say, 
was desperate. Life without her had become 
impossible to him. His love had become a passion 
that swept all else before it. Now it is different. 
He could not do to-day what he ventured to do 
then. She has taught him what love really is. 
Yet even at that time his love was not altogether 
selfish. If the man she was about to marry had 
been one who could have made her happy he might 
have hesitated. But there was no chance of this. 
She could never have learned to love the man to 
whom she was promised. Their mating would 
have meant the prostitution of her body and the 
death of her soul. 

“And what is death after all — nothing. Is it 
not better to leave the world of your own free will 
when you know that life has nothing more to offer 
you, than to drag out long years of unhappiness, 
waiting restlessly for the day when sickness or 
accident should send you to the grave? 

“So this man believed, and so he acted. His plan 
involved no suffering. Death would be instantane- 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


209 


ous. And if by any possibility there should be 
a hereafter in which punishment is meted out to 
those who have sinned on earth, he alone would 
be the one adjudged guilty. 

^This is all the story, Mary, can you forgive 
the man?’^ 

She let her hands fall despairingly in her lap, and 
buried her face in them. When she raised it again 
all the light had gone out of her eyes, and she looked 
drawn and haggard. “Graham, you have broken 
my heart, I think,” she said, “the most beautiful 
dream of my life is gone. To-day I gave you all 
my love, and to-night you let me know that it has 
been based on a falsehood. How could you, oh, 

how could you? that you risked my life I hardly 

care — -it was worthless, I suppose — but to win my 
heart from me by acting a lie for three long weeks 
— I cannot — no, I never can forgive you.” 


210 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


XI. 

Even now I cannot tell the story of the dreary 
hours that followed. A deadly numbness had 
come over me with Mary’s last words, and I no 
longer felt the strength to continue the hopeless 
struggle. 

The next morning we were in New Orleans, and 
from there I telegraphed to her mother to join us. 
In a few hours I received an answer saying that 
she would come. I sent the message to Mary’s 
room. She acknowledged it in writing, but did 
not ask to see me; nor did we meet during the 
entire day. 

I was at the station the next morning to receive 
Mrs. Andrews. She was looking very ill. On our 
way to the hotel she tried to question me, but I 
asked her to wait until she had seen Mary. Later 
in the day she sent for me, and we had a long talk. 
Mary had told her everything. It was agreed that 
we should separate, and later, when Mary applied 
for a divorce, that I should not oppose it. 

I went to the office and paid my bill and Mary’s 
— for this I still had a right to do — then to my 
room where I hurriedly packed my valise. The 
end that I had expected had come. Deep in my 
heart I had known all along that Mary would never 
really be my wife. The promise that I had made 
on the evening that her horse ran away if she would 
give me twenty-four hours I would keep — and I 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


211 


had known even then that there was but one way 
in which it could be done; for she had become too 
integral a part of my life for me to live after she 
had gone out of it. My plan had been to tell her 
the story of the broken bridle on the last day before 
asking her to be my wife, and then, if she should 
refuse in such a manner as to convince me that 
there was no hope, to leave Galveston, and, when 
far enough away, to lose my life iu some seeming 
accident. I would take such means as I could to 
prevent' my body from ever being identified to spare 
her, in case she should ever think of me again, from 
feeling that she had been the cause of my death. 
Now I could not do this as our marriage had changed 
everything. She would have to know of my death. 
I must still make it accidental, as otherwise, in 
trying to atone for one wrong, I would only do 
her a greater, for to have the story told that her 
husband had committed suicide immediately after 
her marriage, would cast a stain on her character 
from which, despite her innocence, she would never 
recover. When or how I would do this I had not 
yet thought, but opportunities are never lacking 
to the man who is ready to make them. 

Calling a porter I gave him my valise and steamer- 
trunk to put into a hack, and, a few minutes later, 
started after him along the corridor. I had only 
gone a few steps when I met Mrs. Andrews. 

‘G was just going to your room,'' she said. ‘‘Mary 
— Mary wishes to see you." 

I joined her, and we walked together down the 


212 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


corridor, but without speaking. In the parlor 
connected with Mary's room she left me. It was 
empty, and, after a moment, I walked to the window 
and looked down on the busy street below; but 
with unseeing eyes. Presently I heard the faint 
rustle of a skirt, and turned and saw Mary. She 
stopped near the table in the center of the room, 
and I walked toward her. “You wished to see 
me?" I said, though my throat almost choked with 
•the words. 

“Yes," she answered, breathlessly. “You — my 
divorce — mother tells me that she saw them taking 
away your trunk — you are going away." 

“Yes." 

“Where?" 

“I do not know yet — out of the country, probably." 

“Graham, you are not — that is why I have sent 
for you — I have not slept since we parted — thinking 
of it — you are going to kill yourself." 

I felt the blood leave my heart suddenly, and 
for a moment I could not answer. 

She stepped forward and grasped my arm. “I 
knew it," she cried. “Oh, God, what can I do," she 
dropped my arm, and sank into a chair next to 
the table, and buried her face in her hands. 

So we remained for nearly a minute. I could 
not deny her words, for they were true, and I had 
sworn to myself never to lie to her again. 

I was still hesitating what to say, when the door 
of Mary’s bedroom opened, and Mrs. Andrews 
appeared. She stopped abruptly on the threshold 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


213 


when she saw us. “Oh,” she said, “I thought 
you had gone;” then she stepped back and closed 
the door. 

Mary had started up at the sound of her mother’s 
voice, and when we were alone again, once more 
laid her hand on my arm; she had recovered her 
self-control, now. “Graham,” she said, “promise 
me on your honor not to do this. You are still 
my husband, and I have a right to ask you — or no, 
I do not ask it as a right, but as a favor — as a favor 
in memory of the love I had for you.” 

Her hand pressed more heavily on my arm. 

What could I do? She asked the greatest sacri- 
fice I could make — and yet I hardly hesitated. 

“I promise,” I said. 

She took my hand in hers and pressed it — oh, if 
I had only had my courage then — but I did not, 
and the next moment I was alone. 

Two days later I was in New York. There 
was but one resource open to me now — work, and 
I plunged into it desperately. In a month the 
novel I had been working on so long was finished. 
I knew too much of publishers to waste time sending 
it around, but took it to one of the best houses, 
and told them that I would pay all expenses, they 
to take the customary author’s ten per cent and 
I all the rest. They accepted this; but the next 
day I got the MS back from them with a short 
note, saying that the novel was too immoral for 
their house to handle. And this experience I had 
repeated with the second house I tried. This 


214 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


convinced me so thoroughly that my book was good 
that I tried no more publishers but organized myself 
into a company and went direct to a printing house 
that would take anything, provided they were 
paid for it. They charged me three hundred dollars 
for the plates, and the first thousand copies — 
the binding was in paper to retail at fifty cents. 
The distribution was more difficult, but I finally 
got a news company to take them off my hands, 
payment to be made only for those copies sold. 

From the time I had finished reading the proofs 
I had begun to hate my book, and when this work 
was done I turned everything over to a responsible 
agent and, leaving him no address, hid myself 
in a farm house in the Adirondacks where I was 
the only boarder. It was a very quiet spot, and 
though there was a summer hotel on one of the 
lakes only five miles distant I never saw a human 
being, except at a distance, outside of the old farmer 
and his wife, with whom I was boarding. From 
daylight until dark I was in the open air climbing 
the different hills, excepting on the very rainy 
days when it was impossible to walk. On these 
I would work on a new book I had commenced 
to keep myself from thinking of Mary. 

This, as the days wore on, became my hardest 
task. All my energy had returned to me now, and 
I did not dare to loosen for an instant the curb 
I had put on myself. I knew without thinking 
that if I did no promise that I had made would 
keep me for an instant from rushing to her side. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


215 


So; nearly two months passed, and it was the 
first of September. It was a clear, cold day, with 
a touch of frost in the air. When I left the house 
after breakfast in the morning I took, without 
thinking, a road which I had always avoided before 
— the road to the village. As I walked a great 
restlessness came over me — my blood danced in 
my veins — my strength seemed limitless — I felt 
that I could grasp the stoutest tree beside me and 
tear it from the soil as easily as I could the smallest 
sapling. 

After an hour’s walk a bend in road allowed 
me a glimpse of the roof of the summer hotel, and 
of the lake below. A sudden desire to hear of 
the outside world came over me — overmastered 
me. I turned sharply, pressed through the bushes 
on the side of the road, and began climbing down 
the precipitous side of the mountain. Somehow 
I reached the bottom safely, and found myself 
at the back of the hotel. I walked around to the 
front, and mounted the steps of the veranda. It 
was absolutely deserted, and the front door was 
closed. Evidently, the cold and rain of the past 
two weeks had caused the season to end abruptly, 
for my farmer had told me that the hotel kept 
open until some time in October. 

I started home again by a longer road, and reached 
the farm in time for dinner, but the long walk failed 
to calm my restlessness. My curb was broken, 
and I could not patch it together again. For two 
days I struggled along, doing an immense amount 


216 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


of walking; on the third I packed my few belongings 
and started for the nearest railroad station. On 
the morning of the 5th I was in New York. 

I went again to the small hotel where I had stopped 
on my return from New Orleans, and where I had 
left my trunk, and registered. As soon as the clerk 
saw my name he became visibly interested, and 
apologized for not having recognized me immediately 
on account of the beard which I had grown while 
away. He told me that there had been a gentleman 
inquiring for me every day for the past two weeks, 
and handed me several cards. They all bore the 
name of the agent in whose hands I had placed 
my novel. 

It excited me somewhat, for it said plainly that 
something important had happened; but it was 
still too early to call at his office, so I went to my 
room — the clerk had given me a much better one 
than he had before — took a bath, shaved off my 
beard, and opened my trunk to look among the few 
clothes I had left behind for something to wear; for 
the suit I had traveled in was about worn out. The 
best I could find was the one I had bought in New 
Orleans, and had used on my ride to Galveston. 

I had had it cleaned and pressed before I left 
there, and it had not been worn since. I was 
gambler enough to believe in luck, and it had always 
been a lucky suit to me. I put it on with a feeling 
of confidence, and then went to breakfast. 

At ten o’clock I was at the door of my agent’s 


IMAGINARY STORY 


217 


office. It was closed, and, for a moment, I did not 
have courage to knock; then I braced myself and 
rapped gently with my knuckles. There was no 
reply, and I waited for nearly a minute before 
I struck the door again. This time my blow was 
stronger, and a voice called, “Come in.’' I entered. 

Two hours later I was again in my room at the 
hotel. I had to be alone with my thoughts. A 
success greater than I had even imagined had come 
to me. My book had provoked a storm of criticism 
and was selling faster than it could be printed. 
Never again could I be reproached with being a 
nameless adventurer. 

And the letters. Before me on the table was 
a mass which I could not begin to read. I turned 
them over idly, still too dazed to think. 

Then out of the pile one stood forth bearing the 
postmark of Galveston. I did not know the hand, 
but opened it eagerly. It was from Mrs. Andrews. 
There were only a few words, and I read them at 
a glance. They were again in Galveston, and 
Mary was sick. She spoke of having written me 
two letters. She asked me now to telegraph my 
address as soon as I received this letter. I looked 
at the date and saw that it had been written two 
weeks before. I ran through my pile of letters 
now rapidly looking for others in the same hand- 
writing, but there were no more. I found one 
from Howland, however, which I put in my pocket 
without opening. For a moment I sat thinking, 


218 ' 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


then I got up and rang the call, and then began 
hurriedly repacking my trunk; once more I would 
visit Galveston. 

Before my bell was answered I had changed 
my mind about my trunk, as it would only hamper 
my movements, and had thrown the few things I 
would need in my valise. Then I walked down 
the stairs to the office. As I paid my bill I thought 
for the first time about money. I had only a few 
dollars in change left in my pocket, but fortunately 
I still had some in the bank, and also, now I 
thought of it, plenty of time, for the through train 
did not leave until 4:25. I went to the bank and 
drew out all my money, taking part of it in New 
York exchange, then, by an effort of will, forced 
myself to sit through a long course dinner. This 
killed the time until three o’clock, and I then had 
an engagement with the agent of my novel; but 
I could not bring myself to face this. I sent him 
a telegram saying that I was called away suddenly, 
and took a cab to the ferry for Jersey City. I was 
still too early for the train, and in the waiting-room 
on the New York side, and later in Jersey City, 
spent a miserable hour. I knew that all this was 
senseless, but some voice seemed whispering to 
me constantly, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” 

At last I was started, and then came the weary 
ride on the train — two nights and a day. It was 
not until Friday morning that we arrived at New 
Orleans. Here I had to change cars, but when 
I reached the other depot I found that we had been 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


219 


late for our connection, and that the train for 
Houston had already gone. There was nothing to do 
except wait for the evening train. For a moment, 
in my eagerness to get forward, I thought of hiring 
a special, but when I enquired the price I found 
that it would take more money than I had with 
me in cash — for, as I have said, a part of it was 
in New York exchange, and there was no one in 
New Orleans who could identify me— and then my 
reason told me that there was no need for any 
such haste, for the train I had missed would arrive 
late at night, and, even if I caught it, I would have to 
wait until the next morning before I could see Mary. 

I left the depot, and spent the day walking, 
and riding about town in the street cars; but I 
was back again early, and evening found me started 
on my way to Houston. 

The weather was very bad, and, as the night 
advanced, I noticed that we were losing time. 
I sat up until everybody else had gone to bed, then, 
worn out, turned in myself. Though I awoke 
early, I remained in my berth until the porter 
called me to breakfast, as we were not due in Gal- 
veston until noon, and I wished a good rest for 
what was before me. I knew that I was nearing 
the crisis at last, and that my first meeting with 
Mary would settle everything. 

During the morning I bought a Galveston paper 
and read it carefully, but there was no mention of 
any of the Andrews family in it. I noticed, however, 
that it stated that there was a storm in the Gulf, 


220 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


which accounted for the bad weather we were having. 

Just before we reached Houston, as I was gazing 
out of the window at the rain-soaked country 
around, Howland’s letter suddenly occurred to me. 
I felt for it in the breast pocket of my coat, where 
I remembered having placed it before leaving New 
York, but found that it was gone. I regretted, 
for a moment, having lost it, then we arrived in 
Houston and the incident passed from my mind. 
We were now several hours behind time, and could 
hardly reach Galveston before five. 

There was some further delay in Houston before 
we started again, but I did not leave the car. The 
rain, I could see, was coming down heavily, and 
the bent bodies of the few people visible showed that 
there was a strong wind blowing. 

After we had left the city behind, and had begun 
cutting down the last fifty miles which separated 
us from Galveston, I tried to decide how I should 
approach Mary. Her mother’s letter had given 
no details that could be of any service to me. I 
took it out, however, and read it again, though 
it was hardly necessary, for I had been through 
it so many times already that I had her words 
almost by heart. 

The bold course, I decided finally, would be the 
best. I would go direct from the train to her 
father’s house and demand admittance. If it 
was refused I would enter anyhow. Nothing should 
keep me now from meeting Mary face to face. I 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


22!1 


hoped that her father would not be there, but, 
even if he was, I would enter in spite of him. 

With the bad habit I have of anticipating events 
I was in the midst of an imaginary conversation 
with Mr. Andrews when I noticed that our train 
had stopped. I waited for a few minutes, but as 
we did not start again I left my seat to find out 
what was the matter. 

When I reached the platform of the car, and 
started forward to the next, I was almost lifted 
•from my feet by the wind. Only by grasping 
the railing firmly could I reach the next car. 
Here I met the conductor and learned the cause 
of the stoppage. There was a freight train ahead 
of us and we could not pass it — as there was no 
side-track — before Virginia Point was reached — 
the last station on the mainland, beyond which 
the bridge across the bay to Galveston began. 

As soon as I learned that there was to be a fresh 
delay all my restlessness returned. I waited im- 
patiently where I was for a few minutes, then, as 
the conductor, who had left me after answering 
my questions, did not come back, nor the train 
start, I decided to walk forward to the freight 
train. If they would let me I would ride to the 
bridge on it, and then take the passenger again 
when it stopped at Virginia Point before crossing 
the bridge. It would at least be doing something. 

When I stood on the platform of the car again, 
however, and felt the wind and rain, and saw how 


222 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


muddy the road looked, I hesitated. But anything 
was better than keeping still, and the next moment 
I stepped down and started forward. 

As soon as I passed the head of the train, and 
the full force of the wind caught me, I regretted 
that I had not remained in the comfortable Pullman. 
I had never felt such a storm before, and the rain 
soaked my clothes through in an instant — but 
there was no use now in turning back, so I con- 
tinued on until I reached the caboose of the freight 
train. 

I found the conductor and brakeman inside, 
and the former told me the cause of the delay. 
Something about the engine had got out of order, 
but the engineer was fixing it, and they were liable 
to start at any moment. I then asked if I could 
go on with them. 

It was against orders, the conductor said; but 
just then we began to move, and he allowed me 
to remain on. 

He told me, now, that he doubted being able 
to cross the bridge, as at the last station there 
was a report that the water of the bay was rising 
fast, but that he would at least go on to Virginia 
Point. 

It may have been fifteen or twenty minutes later 
when there was a sudden jar, and the train came 
to a stop. The conductor and brakemen jumped 
from the bunk where they had been sitting and 
ran out. I followed them. When I reached the 
ground I understood instantly why the engineer 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


223 


had stopped without orders. Ahead, as far as 
the eye could reach, the flats were covered with 
water, and a deep wave was advancing steadily 
towards us. 

As I stood undecided I saw the conductor spring 
to the nearest car and begin climbing rapidly up 
the iron ladder attached to its side, while the brake- 
man started forward under shelter of the cars wav- 
ing his arms to signal the engineer to back. 

Suddenly, just as the conductor’s arm was rising 
above the .top of the car, I saw the caboose leaning 
toward me. Instinctively, I sprung backwards. 
The next instant the rear of the caboose crashed 
down on the spot where I had been standing, while 
the whole line of freight cars in front toppled over 
like a row of cards. Then the full force of the 
hurricane struck me, and I was lifted from my feet 
and dashed to the ground. 

For a moment I lay half stunned; but soon the 
beating of the rain revived me, and I struggled 
to my feet. But I could not face the wind, and had 
to crouch down again and crawl on hands and knees 
until I reached the protection of the caboose which 
had been blown clear off the track and was lying 
on its side. Then I stood up and looked around. 
Nothing living was in sight. Keeping close to 
the wrecked train I walked forward until I reached 
the car I had seen the conductor climbing. From 
underneath its edge, half buried in the mud, I saw 
his arm protruding, but the rest of his body was 
hidden beneath the wreckage. There was not a 


224 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


sign of the brakeman. With some vague idea of 
assistance I seized the outstretched arm by the 
hand and pulled. There was a slight resistance, 
then the whole arm slipped out of the coat sleeve 
and swung loose in my^ hand. It had been com- 
pletely severed from the body by the projecting top 
of the car. For an instant I felt sick. I dropped 
the arm by the empty coat sleeve and rested against 
the. car for support. I had touched dead things 
before, but nothing so awful as that loose arm. 
The advancing wave now reached where I was 
standing, and the muddy water took on a darker 
color as it mixed: with the blood which had begun 
to ooze from beneath the car. Then this faded 
into the mass, the arm disappeared, and the rapidly 
rising water hid all signs of the brief tragedy. On 
the moment I realized completely the full meaning 
of the scene around me, and my self-control re- 
turned. The waters of the bay and gulf had met, 
and the whole country would be flooded. It would 
be impossible to reach Galveston by rail while 
the storm lasted. My best plan would be to return 
to the passenger train and wait on it until the 
waters receded. I looked down the track, but 
it was not yet in sight, so I started back to meet 
it; but the instant I left the shelter of the caboose 
I was again beaten to the ground by the wind. Its 
force was tremendous. I crawled back again to 
the caboose. The door was open and I decided 
to shelter myself inside until the passenger drew 
near, when I would make another effort to reach it. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


225 


The body of the caboose had left the wheels 
and was lying on its side in the water with the 
bottom somewhat higher than the top. I got in 
without difficulty, and, crouching in the doorway, 
waited. Half an hour passed, but there was no 
sign of the other train. Gradually the truth came 
to me. The conductor of the passenger had realized 
the danger in time, and had turned back. I was 
alone on the wrecked train, unless the engineer 
and fireman were still alive on the engine — whether 
they escaped or not I never knew. 

On this whole trip, while I had nothing real to 
fear, I had been in a constant state of nervous 
restlessness — now that there was something tangible 
to face my nervousness left me. I saw that I 
would have to spend some time in the caboose, as 
the water would hardly go down before the next 
day. 

It was now growing dark, so, leaving the door. 
I hunted around until I found the conductor’s 
lantern, and then, lighting it, hung it to a hook 
on the side, now the top of the caboose. I also 
found his lunch bucket and a canteen of water, and 
as I had eaten nothing since my late breakfast that 
morning, I sat down on one of the reversed bunks 
and ate the food I found in it. 

I do not remember having felt, then, any fear 
for my safety — my only anxiety was about Mary, 
though even this was not very great, for I had 
lived through two stormy in Galveston and knew, 
I thought, the worst they could do. Some of the 


226 


AN IM AGIN ARY STORY 


houses on the outskirts would be wrecked, and 
the low-lying parts of the to'wn flooded; but the 
Andrews^ home, on the high ground of Tremont 
street, would be perfectly safe — that Mary was not 
there, but was even at that moment facing advancing 
death, never for an instant occurred to me— for 
this was the beginning of the great storm of Gal- 
veston when eight thousand people lost their lives. 
Well it was for me that I had never read Howland’s 
letter, for in it, as I learned the next Monday, 
when I was telling him and Miss Wallace good by 
before leaving the stricken city forever, he had 
written to me that Mary had never returned to 
her father’s house, but was living at the Denver 
Resurvey in the Agnew cottage — a small cottage 
almost on the beach, and near the sand hills we 
had ridden to so often. And I would have known, 
then, the fearful danger she must be in at that 
moment, and my helplessness would have maddened 
me. 

But even the wildest scene that my imagination 
could have pictured would not have equalled the 
reality. It was the next day, when I was on my 
way to the Denver Resurvey to search for her 
body, that I heard the story. I had passed a 
pile of wreckage, when I thought I heard someone 
call my name, and stopped. The call was repeated, 
and then I saw that it came from a woman almost 
at the top of the pile, and seemingly pinned down 
by a heavy piece of lumber. Though I grudged 
every moment that kept me from my search, I 


AN IMACfJNARY STGUY 


227 


could not leave her where she was; I turned back, 
and, climbing up the pile, worked until I got her 
free. 

The moment I had reached her she had fainted, 
but while I was half carrying, half dragging her 
down she revived,^ and again spoke to me by name. 
Then, though with difficulty, for her face was much 
bruised, I recognized her. She was a milkwoman 
who lived near the Denver Resurvey, and Mary 
and I had stopped at her house several times on 
our rides to buy milk. When I remembered this 
I questioned her about Mary, and then, in broken 
sentences, for she was very weak, and her brain 
seemed dazed by the horror of the past night, I 
got the story: 

It was the evening of the day before — about 
the hour when I was eating supper in the caboose — 
and she and her two children were crouching in 
the cupola of her house expecting every moment 
to be washed away. The water had already flooded 
the floor below and the waves of the gulf were 
raging around them. Many houses had already 
fallen, and she was watching one near the beach 
against which the surf was beating furiously. It 
was the one in which Mary lived. Wave after 
wave dashed against it; but still it stood. Then 
there came a slight lull in the storm, and she was 
beginning to hope, when a huge wave rose in the 
gulf and advanced slowly towards it. 

“I seen it coming,” she said — and it almost 
seemed to me that I could see it also as I watched 


228 


AN IMAGINARY STORl 


her wild eyes — ‘‘and I screamed: ‘Oh, Miss Mary, 
take care!’ though the noise was so awful that I 
couldn’t even hear my babies crying right next 
to me ; then it reached the house. It did not strike 
it, but just sort of lifted it up and carried it with it. 
It brought it almost to our fence before it broke. 
Then the house stranded with its front turned 
round and facing our yard. Then I seen that 
Miss Mary was standing in the window of the attic 
which used to face the gulf. The glass was all 
broke in, and I could see her plain. She didn’t 
seem at all frightened, and I think she called some- 
thing to me, though I couldn’t hear what she said. 
I hadn’t seen her for a long time, as she’d been sick. 
I watched her for nearly a minute, then I seen 
another wave coming and closed my eyes. I 
couldn’t bear to stand there helpless and watch 
her drown. I heard an awful crash when the wave 
broke on the roof, and when I looked again the 
house was gone. I never seen her again. And 
then the next wave struck my own house and my 
two babies was washed away. I don’t remember 
nothing after that until I woke this morning and 
found myself here;” then she sank to the ground, 
crying, “Oh, my babies, my babies, I wish to God 
I’d drowned with you,” — and there I left her. 

But all this was unknown to me, then, and for 
the moment I had nothing to face but the long 
night before me. 

For the last few months I had always carried 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


229 


with me a pocket chessboard, and after supper 
I took this out and began working on some chess 
problems. It needed a strong effort of will to do 
this, but I had myself well in hand, now, and was 
determined not to worry. 

I may have passed an hour in this way when, 
on looking up from my problem, I noticed that 
the bottom of the car was rapidly filling with water, 
and that a thin stream was entering through the 
door. I got on top of the bunk to be out of its 
way, and stretched myself at full length. 

But I could not fix my attention on the chess prob- 
lem again and so, for a few minutes, lay watching 
the water. It rose so rapidly that it soon reached 
the seat — and then I began to realize the seriousness 
of my position. It would be dangerous to remain 
inside any longer. 

I had just stepped to the floor, where the water 
was already above my knees, intending to take 
refuge on the platform, when the car gave a sudden 
lurch, and I was thrown down. Before I could 
regain my feet, it slipped from the high ground 
on which it had been resting, and a wall of water 
rushed in, carrying me with it to the other end. 
For a moment it looked as if I was to be drowned 
like a rat in a trap. Presently, however, the water 
receded a little, and I was able to regain my breath. 
The car was still on its side, though from the way 
it tossed about I knew that it must be afloat. 

Once more I started for the door, and this time 


230 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


gained it. Then, holding my breath, for the door 
was completely under water, I dropped to my 
knees and crawled through. 

When I came to the surface outside I saw that 
the top of the caboose was almost on a level with 
the water. I swam to it, and, grasping the edge, 
drew myself up. Here I was exposed to the full 
fury of the storm, and it was all I could do to keep 
my position. I lay on my face, with my body 
flat, so as to offer as little resistance to the wind 
as possible, and grasped the edge of the car with 
my hands. 

And now began a battle for my life. The storm 
was at its height, and the force of the wind was 
something indescribable. The rain cut like a knife. 
Again and again I was washed from the top of 
the car, and tossed about by the waves, but each 
time I was able to regain it. It was w^ell that my 
muscles had been hardened by years of training, or 
I would never have been able to hold out as I did 
through the next few hours. 

I had lost all count of the time, but, as I learned 
afterwards, somewhere about midnight the wind 
began to die down, and the rain grew less. The 
violent motion of the car ceased, though I could 
feel that a strong current w^as carrying it rapidly 
in some direction. Occasionally, through a rift 
in the clouds, the moonlight broke forth for an 
instant, but all it showed me was a mass of tossing 
waves. Whether I had been carried out to sea, 
or was still on the flats, I could not tell. Once 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


231 


I thought surely that I was at sea for I passed in 
the distance an ocean steamer. But I was not 
at sea, but was still on the flats, for the next day 
the steamer was found beached a mile inland. 

As the motion grew less, and I no longer had 
to struggle each instant to retain my hold, I must 
have slept for a while from exhaustion — though 
it still seems to me that I was awake the whole 
night — for when I next begin to remember clearly it 
was daylight, and the caboose was stranded on the 
very edge of the bay. The water had gone down. 

For a moment I could not realize my position, 
for I seemed to be in the midst of a ruined city. 
All around me was a mass of wreckage piled in 
the most fantastic shapes: on top of the roof of a 
wrecked house a fishing-sloop was resting: a street 
car and a cistern were welded into each other; then 
came more wrecks of houses and vessels, while 
scattered over all were chairs, tables, bedding — all 
the furnishings of many houses — and thousands 
and thousands of pieces of lumber. Some eddy 
of the water had brought them all together. 

I stepped to the side of the car and looked down. 
Then I saw that mixed in with the wreckage were 
many bodies, some so beaten about by the waves 
as to seem no longer human. 

Within a few feet of ,me, tied to a door, was the 
body of a child, but the head had been crushed in; 
while near it lay a young woman whom I recognized 
as having often seen on the streets of Galveston. 
Her dress had been stripped completely from her 


232 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


body, and, naked, she lay on her back with sightless 
eyes staring at the sky. 

On the other side of the car it was the same ; men 
and women and children, many of them naked, and 
some twisted into the most horrible shapes, were 
strewn amidst the wreckage. 

I turned from them and looked across the bay 
toward Galveston. A great fear had come over me. 
If all these bodies were from there some dreadful 
calamity had happened to it. The distance was too 
far for me to distinguish anything very clearly, 
though I could see that the Tremont Hotel was 
still standing. 

In the first few moments after I awoke, in looking 
at the dead around me, I had almost forgotten the 
object of my journey; but now it came back to me 
with a rush. I jumped down from the top of the 
car and walked to the edge of the water. By some 
means I must reach Galveston immediately. 

The bridge was gone, but among the wreckage 
were many boats, and these I began to examine. 
I found, presently, a little skiff which seemed less 
damaged than the others. Though well up on shore, 
it was still filled with water, which showed that it 
was sea-worthy. I emptied the water out, and 
dragged it to the edge of the bay, then searched the 
nearest pile of wreckage until I found a piece of 
board that would serve for a paddle as the oar- 
locks were gone, and tho upper part too broken for 
romng. 

The sun was well up when I finally got the skiff 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


233 


into deep water and began my journey. The day 
promised to be warm. After I passed the ruins of 
the bridge I steered eastward so as to land on the 
bay side of the city, as I judged that walking w^ould 
be almost impossible at the point where the bridge 
had joined the island. The tide was going out, 
which made my work easier, though my progress 
was still very slow. 

As I advanced the sights around me became more 
horrible. It was death, death everywhere. 

Once, a dead body, already swollen by the gasses 
inside, shot up near me: the face had been eaten 
off by the fish. Again, I passed a raft with a man 
still living: he was singing — his sufferings the night 
before had driven him insane. And then more dead, 
and more dead, and always wreckage, wreckage, 
wreckage. 

It was nearing noon when I reached the bay 
front, and then I began to realize fully the awful 
damage that the storm had wrought. The whole 
edge of the bay shore as far as I could see was de- 
stroyed. ' Where once there had been handsome 
buildings were now only great heaps of ruins. The 
wharves were gone. 

At Thirtieth street I landed. The dead were 
everywhere, and the streets so blocked with wreck- 
age that walking was almost impossible. Some- 
times I advanced under the tottering walls of ruined 
houses, and sometimes over piles of wreckage from 
which, now and again, some mangled corpse would 
protrude. 


234 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


As I neared Market street I began to meet living 
people, but their faces were almost more terrible 
than those of the dead, and deeper and deeper grew 
my fear for Mary. 

At Bath avenue, which, less settled, was more 
free from fallen houses, I turned toward the south. 
Its surface, like those of the other streets I had 
crossed, was covered with a thick slime, and more 
than once I fell: but, at last, in spite of all obstacles, 
I reached Broadway. 

The houses here had suffered less, though the roofs 
of many were gone, while nearly every window-pane 
had been blown in. 

I followed Broadway until I reached Tremont, 
and then, as I turned again toward the beach, saw 
that the Andrews house was still standing. 

I covered the short distance that remained rapidly. 

As I drew near I saw that the garden was littered 
with rubbish, but it evidently did not conie from 
the house, but had been carried there by the waters. 
I forced my way through this, and then climbed 
on to the veranda, for the steps leading to it had 
been washed away. The front door was standing 
open. 

Ringing the bell, I entered. No one was in sight 
and I continued to the drawing-room. The water 
had reached even here, and everything was in the 
wildest disarray. I waited a moment, but could 
hear no sound of any one coming, so passed through 
its length to the dining-room— — and then I saw 
Mr. Andrews. 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


235 


He was seated at the end of the long table, with 
his elbows resting on it, and his head bowed down 
between his hands. He raised his eyes at the sound 
of my enterance, and looked at me, but said nothing. 

Then I saw that in the night he had become a 
decrepit old man, and in a flash I realized what the 
storm had meant to him. All his property was in 
Galveston and the surrounding country — in houses 
and real estate, and in shares of the various manu- 
facturing establishments — the collateral of his bank 
was now worthless, and he was ruined. 

A feeling of pity entered my heart, and when I 
spoke it was in a different tone than I thought I 
would ever use toward him: “Where is Mary?” 
I asked. 

He did not seem to hear me, so I advanced to his 
side, and took him by the arm: “Where is Mary?” 
I repeated. 

He half straightened up for an instant, and gazed 
at me dully out of his bleared eyes, then he answered 
slowly, “Dead.” 

Dead! — I could not — would not realize it. Noth- 
ing but her body lying before me could convince 
me — and even then I would not be, convinced. 

“Where is she?’’ I asked. 

He did not reply, but, waving me away with a 
feeble gesture, let his head fall again to the table. 

I saw that it would be useless to question him 
further now, so, without another word, left him and 
started to search the house. 

I was never more cool in my life. For the moment 


236 


AN IMAGINARY STORY 


my feelings were absolutely dead. I went into each 
room down stairs, then mounted to the second story. 

I entered first the room which I knew had been 
Mary’s. The windows had been blown in by the 
wind, and everything was in confusion. One glance 
showed me that she was not there. I turned to the 
next room : and then from room to room until I had 
examined every one. Except for Mr. Andrews the 
house was absolutely deserted. I passed down the 
back stairway to the kitchen, and then, at last, 
found someone — it was only the negro cook — for 
everyone, even Mrs. Andrews, had left the house to 
join in the search for the dead — and for the first 
time learned where Mary had been living. 

She was there alone, the woman told me, except 
for one servant, a negro girl , who, before her marriage, 
had been her maid, though Mrs. Andrews spent much 
of the time with her. She had not been able to 
visit her the day before on account of the storm, 
and that morning word had reached them that Mary 
was dead. 

As soon as I learned where she had been living I 
left the house and again faced the wrecked city — 
directing my course toward the Denver Resurvey. 
It was then, as I have already written, that I rescued 
the woman, and heard the story of Mary’s death. 

But still I would not give in, and sullenly, through 
slime and wreckage, forced my way onward. 

Since the night before I had had nothing to eat 
or drink; but I was scarcely conscious of fatigue. 
All my powers were now' concentrated on one object 


IMAGINARY STORY 


237 


— to see Mary again — living or dead to see Mary 
again. 

At Forty-third street I entered the graveyard 
where Mary and I had spent our first hour together 
and saw that even here the waves had done their 
work. Coffins with their dead had been floated from 
the graves — skulls and bones were lying scattered 
in the mud — while over all the more recent dead 
were festering in the sun. 

I passed through the graveyard — callous now to 
everything — and then began the worst part of my 
journey. The land was low, and in many places 
still under water. Through this I had to wade or 
swim, shoving aside the dead bodies which, en- 
tangled in the wreckage, tried to block my way. 
The day was warm and sultry, and the heat of the 
sun was beginning to have its effect — decomposition 
had already begun, and the odor of decay poisoned 
the air. But nothing, now, could stop me, and in a 
straight line, over or through all obstacles, I steadily 
pressed forward. 

The sun was declining when, at last, I came in 
sight of my goal — or not in sight, for where the 
suburb of Denver Resurvey had once stood, was now 
nothing but ruins. Only two shells of houses were 
still standing. I walked to the nearest of these, 
and, mounting the wall, looked toward the gulf. 
Even the foundations of Mary’s house had disap- 
peared, and the waves were breaking over the spot 
where it had once stood. 

And now, carefully, I began my search. There 


m 


AN IMAGINARY HTORY 


were not many bodies to be seen, for most of the 
dead had been carried out to sea — to be cast back 
during the next few days in rotting masses on the 
beach — but each one of those which the wreckage 
still held, I examined. 

The sun had almost set when a shadow crossed 
my path, and I saw that I was no longer alone — a 
burly negro was also searching among the dead. A 
flash of light showed me that he carried an open 
knife in his hand, but I thought nothing of it until, 
on looking at a body which he had been near when 
he first attracted my attention, I saw that one of 
the fingers had been freshly severed from the hand. 
Then I understood why he carried a knife — if the 
swollen fingers of the dead refused to give up their 
property, he would cut them off. 

Something in the horror of this roused me from 
my apathy. Though, to me, these bodies were 
nothing, there might be others to whom they were 
still dear, and he should despoil no more. 

I looked up and saw him about fifty yards away 
just bending over another body, and started to- 
wards him. 

I was carrying a heavy stick in my hand, which 
I had used to help me over the piles of wreckage, 
and I knew that his knife would be nothing against 
it: 

As I drew nearer a ragged skirt told me that the 
body he was about to rob was that of a woman. He 
was standing with his back to me, but I could see 
that he already had her hand in his and was trying 


AN IMAGINARY STORV 


2.39 


to slip off a ring. It resisted, apparently, for as I 
came up to him noiselessly over the soft sand he 
took the knife from his mouth, where he had placed 
it while moving the body, and, dropping all the 
fingers except the one with the ring, pressed the 
knife against the flesh. 

It had hardly broken the skin, when the woman 
started up with a cry — and I saw that she was Mary. 
He gave an oath, then, still holding her finger with 
his left hand, raised his right arm as if to strike her. 

But the blow never fell ; for, more quickly than I 
could think, I swung my club, and brought it down 
with all my force upon his head. The skull crushed 
in and he dropped to the ground. Mary staggered 
backwards ; but before she could fall I had reached 
her side and caught her. For a moment she stared 
at me wildly — then a sudden light came in her eyes 
— a light that I had first seen so many months 
before — and crying “Graham, Graham, she threw 
her arms around my neck and pressed her lips to 
mine — and then I knew, that, at last, the long 
struggle was ended. 



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